


Everlasting

by missmichellebelle



Series: Everlasting [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blaine Big Bang 2012, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For some, time passes slowly. For the Hummels, it doesn’t exist. It is the summer of 1914 and, at the tender age of seventeen, Blaine Anderson is Lima, Ohio’s most eligible bachelor. But for Blaine, one thing is true; the heat of summer is not nearly as stifling as the formality of his life. When Blaine seeks freedom in the forest that has called to him since his childhood, he comes across a boy and a family who are unlike anything he has ever known and the course of his life changes forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All artwork by [portraitofemmy](portraitofemmy.tumblr.com).
> 
> Special thanks to Em, Becca, Becky, Sere, Mary, and Kate. <3

_For some, time passes slowly. An hour can seem an eternity. For others, there’s never enough. For the Hummels, it didn’t exist._

_Time is like a wheel, turning and turning, never stopping. And the woods are the center, the hub of the wheel._

_It began the first week of summer, a strange and breathless time, when accident, or fate, brings lives together. When people are led to do things they’ve never done before. On this summer’s day, not so very long ago, the wheel set lives in motion in mysterious ways. It set Carole Hummel out for the village of Lima, to meet her two sons as she did once every ten years._

 

 

**SUMMER. LIMA, OHIO. 1914**

Going into town is not something she or her husband make a habit of doing. They make almost everything they need by hand, down to their bread and butter, and anything that needs to be bought in town is simply a luxury. Luxuries are not something her family can afford, although it has little to do with money.

Lima is a small town, one that she has watched spring up from practically nothing, and the woods through which she travels provide a thick border on its western edge. Yet every time she makes this journey, it always seems to get shorter, the trees always thinning far sooner than she remembers.

It’s a fact that sits ill in the pit of her stomach.

Ten years can really change a place, and Lima, as small as it is, is absolutely no exception. Carole can see buildings where no buildings had been before, and places she had once known no longer seem to exist. A loud noise sounds to her right and she starts, hand fluttering to her chest, to her heart, as an automobile stutters past her. The world is changing, and quickly, and Carole isn’t sure if she’s ready for it.

Despite the fact that the Hummels had given up all things superfluous quite some time ago, Carole always takes it upon herself to do as much shopping as possible during these little trips. She doesn’t make them often, after all.

It’s almost always necessities; a spindle, if hers is looking a little more worn down than usual, and perhaps some new cookware, because it will never really go out of fashion. She eyes a few other things—tea bags, bolts of fabric, clothing. They’re things her family doesn’t need and, although the temptation is great, she shifts her gaze and continues on her way.

She picks her way through various storefronts, bartering and acquiring like she’s always done. Carole recognizes no one, and no one recognizes her, and, as always, that is for the best. Her small talk and easygoing manner leave good impressions, but no one will remember her in a good day’s time, much less years down the line.

It comes as she’s loading purchases into the cart. Even amongst the hustle and bustle of the tiny town, which seems to swallow everything else up, it’s as clear as a bell to her.

“Ma!”

Her head whips around and a smile spreads instantly across her face. She quickly leaves her load, taking a few steps so that her arms can wrap around the young man rushing towards her.

“Oh, Finn.” She pulls her son in close—a feat considering how much taller he is than her, but he wraps his awkward arms around her and grins. Carole turns her head, her watery smile growing larger as she takes in the second slim figure approaching them. Releasing her son, she pulls the other boy graciously into a hug.

“Kurt.” The greetings are simple; so simple, Kurt doesn’t even utter anything back, just hugs. If, when they pull apart, he looks a little redder around the eyes, his stepmother and brother know better than to mention it.

“Tell me, tell me,” Carole insists, walking them over to the cart. They gratefully deposit their own loads, Finn turning his attention to the black mustang that he’d left behind in Ohio. Dropping her voice and casting a glance around, Carole looks at Kurt with a motherly worry in her eyes that Kurt still isn’t used to, even after all this time. “Did you go to Germany?”

Stilling, he forces a smile and gives a tight nod.

“Passed through New York on the way back, too.” Carole doesn’t respond, but looks at him intently, lips pursed. “There’s… It’s just more of the same.” His voice is quiet, sad, and Carole reaches for his hand.

“One day, dear.” Carole gives his hand a squeeze and Kurt gives her a tight smile in return, although whatever she’s promising seems to fall on deaf ears. “Where else? Quickly—don’t leave your mother waiting.” Her smiles and eagerness bleed through and all thoughts of their hushed conversation flee, lessening the tension that Kurt had so obviously been holding in his shoulders.

“Paris,” Kurt replies simply, his smile turning sincere, and he pulls something from the pouch at his hip. He holds it out for Carole, who takes it in her cupped hands and stares.

“Really?” She gasps, marveling at the tiny memento.

“We thought that, since you and Burt couldn’t go with us, we’d bring France to you.” Finn approaches again, pulling his mother into a tight side-hug as she laughs jovially.

“My own Eiffel Tower,” Carole muses, holding it up to the light, and Kurt grins at his appropriate gift choice. “Now we’ll always have a piece of France right here in Ohio with us.” Finn chuckles while Kurt rolls his eyes fondly, and Carole slips the miniscule monument into the pocket of her dress. For a minute, she looks at the two of them with a quiet sort of sadness before pulling them close again. “Oh, boys, I missed you so much.”

Their responses are mumbled into hair and shoulders, accompanied with squeezes back before Carole releases them. She dabs at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, sending Finn into a hovering frenzy over his mother’s well-being. Kurt shoos him away, slipping an arm around his stepmother.

“She just missed us, Finn. No need to suffocate her with attention,” Kurt admonishes as they help Carole up into the cart. Finn’s shoulders slump slightly and Carole laughs.

“After ten years, I think I could do with some attention from my boys.”

 

 

On the outskirts of Lima, in the shadow of the woods, stands a tall, regal house that is boxed with a rather intimidating iron fence. It is the home of the wealthy landowner, Michael Anderson, the leaseholder of Lima and the surrounding countryside, and his rather small, but prestigious family. The Andersons  _are_  society, there is no doubt about that, and anyone who wants to be someone in Lima, Ohio, wants an in with the Andersons. 

The easiest way, or so some assume, is through Michael Anderson’s single heir.

“Blaine!”

He doesn’t move. If he moves, that means he has to acknowledge that he is being called, and to acknowledge it would make it acceptable (which it most certainly isn’t). So instead, he continues to lie there, back pressed into the dew-riddled morning grass, eyes trained on the dapples of sunlight breaking through the trees.

“Blaine!”

Every time his mother calls it, Blaine realizes more and more how much he hates his name. It’s easy, really, after hearing it called in such a way for seventeen years (even if he can’t remember all seventeen, he is sure it was always called in such a way). But even if his name wasn’t just another order for his mother to scream, he would still dislike it. Even being an Anderson doesn’t provide him with the opportunity to escape a name like “Blaine” and the torment that accompanies it. Society dictates that such behavior is improper, of course, and no one dares scorn an Anderson in the public eye, but Blaine has heard the whispers and suffered the looks. Society might be all about propriety and rules, but it has never been very welcoming.

“Blaine!”

His mother is certainly insistent today.

“I need a new name,” he muses quietly to the nature around him. Unlike anything else in his life, at least the grass and the trees and the wind actually listen to him. “One that isn’t worn out from being called so much.”

“ _Blaine!_ ”

He knows that tone. With a sigh, he sits up, brushing away the water droplets that cling to his morning clothes before heaving himself to his feet. Blaine knows that his mother will not be happy with him; she never is when he sneaks out of the house at sunrise.

“Coming, mother!”

Best he go reluctantly than be dragged by his ear after his mother truly loses her patience.

Blaine Anderson, at the tender age of seventeen, is Lima, Ohio’s most eligible bachelor. Not that Blaine particularly cares for this title, but it has been given to him all the same. He is well aware that such popularity comes from his last name and the size of his inheritance more than anything else, no matter how often girls seem to fawn over him. 

Blaine is educated, or at least as educated as one can become in rural Ohio, and he has been raised to be an absolute gentleman. It’s no surprise, really, that he is being herded around to parties and tea with every eligible lady within a thirty mile radius; Blaine knows he has been buffed and polished into this person from the moment he was born.

Since he was ten, Blaine’s life has almost always been the same constant routine.

He is normally awoken by a maid promptly at eight in the morning. This had been his first point of rebellion, when he began rising before the maids and the sun. It was one of the only freedoms his mother still allowed him, although it was with great reluctance.

He is then assisted in dressing, even though he’s more than capable of dressing himself (perhaps the actual clothing selection is a bit advanced for him, but is matching really that important?), outfitted in expensive waistcoats and trousers, a blazer or sack coat on hand for whatever his schedule entails that day. His hair, an unruly mane of curls that his own mother both loves and loathes, is slicked into near nonexistence in a process that is painful, time- consuming, and ridiculously boring.

Breakfast with his mother and father is practically scripted, right down to the time his father pulls out his pocket watch and insists it’s time to head into town. Then it’s piano lessons, although Blaine is already more than proficient, and tea with his mother and grandmother.

The afternoon is always full of entertaining. 

His mother takes him to garden parties, where he mingles with other young gentlemen (many he considers friends, but who are all forced behind the same façades as he is) and watches the young ladies play croquet with faked amusement. He is sometimes encouraged to play golf with some of the other boys, quiet and proper and not able to move freely in his pressed blazer. There is too much tea and too many crowds of gossiping girls fanning themselves as Blaine shifts uncomfortably behind his practiced smile.

In the past few months, since Blaine has turned seventeen, his mother has also taken it upon herself to play matchmaker (a game that Blaine quickly discovered he hates). It isn’t rare to find himself coerced into walks or picnics or dancing with different young ladies against his own volition, and Blaine finds it easier to play along with his mother’s whims than to try to go against them.

For the last several weeks, her attentions (and, by default, his) have been focused on a Miss Rachel Berry, whose father owns the only bank in Lima and thus holds quite a bit of societal power already. Blaine is unsure if that plays into the match at all, but it certainly makes Rachel “eligible” in his mother’s eyes. They often take walks through the garden, her chaperone shadowing them as is only proper, or sometimes she will be invited to afternoon tea.

Blaine will smile, kiss her hand, and listen attentively as is expected, but that’s as far as propriety directs him. Rachel is a lovely girl, of course, even if her smile is a bit too wide to be trustworthy and she speaks more than is normally acceptable. At least he doesn’t need to worry about making conversation during their meetings; she makes enough for a room full of people all on her own.

Come evening, he will again join his parents for dinner. If he is prompted, he will speak, but will otherwise keep quiet and listen as his father recounts his day in town. If it is Tuesday, he will join his father in meeting with the other notable men in town while they drink brandy and smoke cigars, (activities that hold no interest for Blaine) and gossip like old women. Most nights, he is free to pursue his own activities and, in the summer especially, he is almost always outside.

For Blaine Anderson, one thing is true: the heat of summer is not nearly as stifling as the formality of his life. With every passing day, the feeling grows stronger. He is coming closer to the end of something, and moving towards the beginning of something new.

Change is in the air. It is only a question of when.

 

 

It is unusual when Blaine’s mother clears their schedule for the day. There are no golf games to be played, no garden parties to attend, and no unbearably long listening sessions with Rachel. For once, Blaine is sure he’ll have an afternoon to himself. Maybe he’ll finally take a walk in the woods like he’s always wanted to do, or perhaps he’ll even go into town. Maybe Nicholas or Jeffrey are available and they could do something they’ll truly enjoy?

Of course, he should have known better.

“It’s my turn to host tea this weekend, Blaine, and I will not do so without the proper pastries.” Because pastries are high on his mother’s list of priorities, right after corsets, gossip, afternoon tea, and grandchildren (in fact, pastries might even come before grandchildren—he isn’t entirely certain). Why his mother needs him to pick out pastries, he doesn’t really understand.

“Really, Blaine,” she admonishes while adjusting her bonnet (ugly things, bonnets), “no woman runs errands without an escort. Surely I’ve taught you better.”

He should be grateful, perhaps. It is not often that Blaine actually goes into town. If his mother wasn’t so particular about her pastries, he is positive she would send one of their many maids to pick them out. In fact, that’s what his mother normally does. Perhaps the summer season is being particularly boring and she needs to find new ways to entertain herself or this impending tea is far more important than all the others. The idea wrenches knots in Blaine’s stomach and he tries to push the thought away.

They are one of the only families in or near Lima that can afford a car—he is sure the Berrys have one as well, and maybe a few of the other upper-class families. It should be amusing, the way people scurry out of the way as they drive into town, kicking up the dust in the road. If Blaine were truly an Anderson, he would sneer at the awe that strikes the people’s faces as they pass by. Really, he is far too busy staring at the horses and the buggies to care about the way people are staring at  _him_  (and isn’t it a sad day indeed when he is struck speechless by the sight of a pack animal).

“Don’t wander,” his mother warns him as they step out of the car. Blaine is almost too busy looking around, taking in the worn storefronts and breathing in the scent of bread, and flowers, and _people_. He’s never felt so—

“Blaine!”

His attention snaps back to his mother immediately, the neutral mask of the good, well-mannered son snapping onto his face easily after years of use.

“Just. Wait here.” Her eyes cast around uneasily, as if it is risky to leave her practically adult son on the wooden walkway outside of Mr. Ryerson’s bakery. He resists the urge to roll his eyes until her back is turned and her bustled skirts disappear through the door.

And so Blaine waits, leaning against the storefront, ignoring the way he suddenly wants anything and everything all at once. It is new, for him, and perhaps a bit too much at once. His eyes flick around almost nervously, casting glances at all there is to see far too quickly, as if he only has so long to drink it all in (and doesn’t he?). His ears strain, picking up the symphony of sounds that buzz around him—it’s hardly music, really just a low, gentle buzz, but it fills him in a way that the keys of a piano never have. And the scents—those are something Blaine should be able to comprehend. All of them are familiar in some way or another, but never together in this way, never all at once.

Perhaps it should be alarming, how much Blaine is suddenly addicted to this feeling. There is no word for it—at least, no word that he knows. It is on the tip of his tongue; a vagrant thought that is constantly eluding him. A nagging sensation seems to pull at the base of his neck, the muscles in his legs bunching in anticipation. Blaine wants to  _run_. He wants to run in a way he hasn’t in many, many years and the sudden desire seems to root him in place. Wanting to move and being unable to, Blaine grits his teeth, his entire body prickling.

Not that anyone would know. No one ever knew. If Blaine wanted to run, to run far away from Lima and never, ever look back, not a single person would be able to guess it. He’s good at that, he realizes. Even with his muscles coiled and ready for action, he still smiles, tipping his head in greeting, and looking ever the gentleman.

It’s everything, all at once, that proves to be too much. It’s the way yells and laughter fade into the buzz that he so thoroughly enjoys, and the way his eyes can’t focus and stay anywhere for very long. So, when an object skims past his leg, drawing his attention in a way that is utterly foreign to him, he is taken by surprise (and when was the last time that had truly happened?).

“Hey, mind giving us a hand?”

He glances up, shielding his eyes from the glare of the mid-afternoon sun despite the bowler hat fit snugly on his head. It’s too hot for hats, but fashion, unfortunately, is not dictated by the weather. Blaine still has to wear a sack coat over his collared shirt and waistcoat, looking twice his age and being incredibly sticky and uncomfortable at the same time.

Bending down, Blaine dutifully fetches the object resting by his foot. A softball—he recognizes it easily enough, even if he hasn’t seen one in… To be honest, he can’t remember how long. He throws it up and down in his hand a bit, eyes following the movement as if it marvels him (and maybe it does, just a little).

“You gonna give that back to us or what? We got a game to play!”

This time, Blaine’s eyes are drawn to the scene in front of him. How had he not noticed it before? A group of boys, boys  _his age_ , are gathered around playing softball. Jackets are thrown in the dirt with a complete lack of care for the garments, serving as makeshift bases, and one of the boys swings a roughly-made bat in his hand.

Blaine has never seen any of these boys before. They aren’t the sort that come play golf on the lawn, or talk pleasantly about absolutely nothing over the course of hours. Even if their clothes aren’t enough of an indication (poorly-constructed, poorly-cared for, immensely out-of-date), they hold themselves differently. These are boys who have not been scolded for slouching at the dinner table. They have not spent grueling hours mastering table etiquette. They’ve probably never had to wait outside of the bakery while their mother nitpicks over pastries, and they certainly don’t require a servant to help them get dressed.

His hand grips the ball tightly, as if it is his only connection to this world that is oh-so-far from his own.

“Sure. Here.” 

He tosses it over, relief washing through him as it is easily caught by the closest boy. No fumble, no weak attempt at a throw, no lack of distance. Perhaps he isn’t so sheltered after all. Blaine nearly feels himself smiling, his heart picking up pace. Maybe he can join them? It has been years, of course, but it can’t be too hard, can it? Who knows how long his mother will take, what with detailing the types of bread she wants and customizing every single little cake—

“That’s Anderson, isn’t it?”

Whatever hopes he’s gathering are dashed for the second time that day.

The boy holding the bat is looking at him, a news cap pulled firmly over his head and practically blocking his eyes from view. It is almost as if that name, that  _one single name_ , changes everything. Pairs of eyes look at him differently, now. No longer is he the random stranger who had tossed the ball, no longer is he Blaine. He’s Blaine  _Anderson_ , and that changes absolutely everything.

“Gracing us with your presence, Your Highness?”

The mask cracks and Blaine blanches, insulted, and it smarts in a way he can’t comprehend.

“Bet that’s his car, too. Had to come and rub it in all of our faces.”

_No._

“Just coming to watch the little people scamper around like ants.”

_He isn’t like that_.

“Look at that suit? Bet you I could sell that and feed my family for a  _month_.”

_He isn’t like his father_.

“Surprised he even threw our ball back.”

_He never asked for this_.

“Don’t he got servants for that?”

_He never wanted any of this._

“What’s the matter, Mr. Moneybags? You and your fancy suit leave the lapdogs at home today?”

The laughter punctures like bullet wounds. Maybe worse but, until he gets shot, he won’t be able to know. There’s that urge again, the coiling of muscles in his legs. Blaine wants to run. He wants to duck his head, to hide away, to  _crawl_  back into the world that at least accepts him. But his knees lock and he stands there, facing them down.

Something new crawls at the edge of his tongue and, with a raised eyebrow, his hands move deftly to remove his coat.

“Gentlemen. I believe there’s a much better way to handle this.”

The persona comes back easy, like breathing. It will always be there for him, without fail, when there’s nothing else to hide behind.

 

 

“No, no. Those are  _far_  too large for teacakes,” Grace Anderson sighs, turning to look away as if the offer is far below her. The smile on the baker’s face flickers for a moment, before it’s back full-force and fake as ever.

“Of course, Mrs. Anderson, of course.” 

Mr. Ryerson, the only baker within decent distance of Lima, is an odd sort of gentleman. His clothing choices are eccentric and often the source of gossip, and he scarcely wears hats, his balding head something to parade about rather than hide. He hasn’t always been in Lima, but the “when” and “where from” of his arrival are answered in a handful of stories that never seem to match. The baker would just smile in a way that often made one’s skin crawl, shake his head, and go about his day.

Mrs. Anderson isn’t fond of him in the slightest, which is why she almost never makes the trip herself. But this is  _important_  and really, she should have ordered out to Westerville for her teacakes.

“Unfortunately, this is the smallest—” 

Mrs. Anderson’s loud, exasperated sigh cuts him off from going any further.

“These won’t do.  _None_  of these will do. Really, why is it so hard to entertain in this town?”

Mr. Ryerson’s smile only grows with his increasing annoyance.

“I was hoping for some  _petit fours?_ ” Her eyes eagerly scan the display cases and the shelves laden with bread, as if something useful might make itself known at any moment. This time, Mr. Ryerson does not attempt to hide his scowl.

“Well, perhaps you should look somewhere else. France, maybe? I’m sorry, sweetheart, but in case you hadn’t noticed… This is  _Ohio_.”

Stepping back, Mrs. Anderson looks at the baker in shock. How  _dare_  he speak to her that way? To  _her_. The wife of Michael Anderson, the man who practically built Lima up from its foundations? And perhaps that is a  _bit_ of a stretch since her husband’s family had started the project generations before, but who doesn’t use lies to promote themselves every once in awhile?

“In that case, you must have no need for my patronage  _or_  my husband’s money. Good day.” She turns on her heel with a dramatic flourish of her skirts, but is stopped almost immediately by the baker’s call of “wait!”

“Now, now. There might not be a high demand for such delicacies out here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make an exception for you, Mrs. Anderson.” The smile is back again, his voice dripping with insincere charm that makes him more disconcerting than persuasive.

Interested again, Mrs. Anderson turns on her own charming smile and turns back to him, drawing out her purse.

“Well then, I  _do_  believe we can come to some sort of arrangement. Now, if possible, I’d like—”

 

 

“Blaine Anderson, you’ve gotta be kidding me!”

“There’s no way!”

_This must be what freedom feels like_. 

If there’s any feeling for it, Blaine is sure that this is it. The coils that have slowly been tensing over the last several years suddenly unwind, and he’s running. He’s running, and he’s laughing, and he feels better than he has in a very long time. In fact, Blaine is pretty sure that he doesn’t want it to stop, sure that he will never stop running now that he’s had the chance to start.

“Go Blaine, go!”

“You can do it! Go Blaine!”

It’s surreal to go from being taunted one moment to being urged on the next. Maybe he should feel angrier, but he’s far too busy having fun to think about something like that. His heart thuds against his ribs, there is so much adrenaline coursing through his blood, and sweat beads persistently along his hairline and neck. He can’t even remember where he put his hat and jacket and, frankly, he can’t be bothered to care.

He half-slides in a flourish onto “home plate,” dust kicking up behind him and he’s suddenly surrounded by a throng of boys congratulating him. There is shock there, but not from him. Shock that the Anderson’s son can do something like play softball with boys whose fathers work on farms or cobble shoes. The inclusion seeps deeply into him and he realizes that this feeling is far better than running. Blaine wants to wrap himself up in it, to let it sink deeply into his bones so he can never forget it. In the span of five minutes, he has become the happiest he has ever been in his life.

“Blaine Anderson!”

His laughter fades, his face becomes guarded, and his eyes are wide as he turns in the now- dispersing group of boys to face his mother. Despite all of her beauty, she’s a force to be reckoned with, and Blaine can hear muttered sympathies as the boys retreat and leave him to deal with her.

So, he does what he can. Straightens his shirt, settles the sleeves back around his wrists, fetches his coat and hat, and tries without much success to dust all of the dry dirt from his pants.

She doesn’t speak to him as they approach the car, nor does she utter a word on the drive back. When they return, she turns to give him one long, careful look and then sighs heavily.

“We really did raise you better, Blaine.”

And that’s that. 

She disappears into the house without once mentioning tea or an engagement or  _Rachel Berry_. It should be a good feeling, but Blaine can’t stop the way her words sink into his stomach like a branding iron. He may have been happy, but it has only led to his mother being disappointed in him.

 

 

The Hummels have learned to be careful people. They have lived in many places, but they have lived the longest in a cabin that Burt built at the edge of a lake. It’s hard to see most of the time, shrouded by the woods around it, and is the perfect place for a family with a secret to hide.

“They tried to teach Finn to dance.” Kurt grins, folded onto their humble couch as his gangly stepbrother attempts to twirl Carole across their small living room. It’s quite a sight, Finn’s legs tangling up and Carole doing more of the leading than her own son. Burt just sits by, amused and shaking his head.

“I see they didn’t get very far,” Carole teases, and Finn glares at her.

“No, Ma, really, I got this. Just watch.” 

He straightens up for just a moment, and then they’re both laughing again. Kurt watches with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and, as they finally begin moving again, he stands and slips away.

It isn’t long before his father finds him, not that Kurt had expected anything less. He turns to look at him with slightly-raised eyebrows, arms crossed, while Kurt stares out the window at the lake. They’re quiet for a few moments, father and son standing shoulder-to-shoulder, before Burt finally clears his throat.

“Carole mentioned you went to Germany.”

Kurt stills, but gives a jerky nod.

“Did you, I mean… Could they…” He looks away for just a moment, as if whatever he’s trying to say can’t easily be said.

“No. No, I couldn’t even see someone.” Kurt’s voice is quiet and he refuses to look at his father. “I did some reading while we were over there, but it’s still just… Theories. Ridiculous, philosophical theories.” Eyes narrowed, he tightens his hold on himself. “Read about what happened in New York, though.” His voice lowers even more as he sends a meaningful glance at his dad, who in turn just nods solemnly.

“You never know for sure, kid, but there’s got to be—”

Kurt just shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

“There isn’t, Pa. There isn’t a place for people like me. Not now, and maybe not ever.” Which hurts, he has to admit. Because ever is an awfully long time to not be himself, to be different and to be punished for it.

He finally turns from the window, looking back at Carole and Finn as they laugh and dance and tell stories from the last ten years. Kurt’s own smile is forlorn and bitter, as if he is remembering years past that he only wishes he could hold close to him again.

“War’s coming,” he mentions offhandedly and, again, his father simply nods. “Finn expressed an interest in going.” Kurt knows that Burt will wear a grim look at the news, as if he isn’t expecting anything less but is still not comforted by the fact.

“Likes to get away, doesn’t he?”

Kurt just nods, his eyes following their dance without really focusing on their faces or their laughter.

“So do you.”

Kurt nods again, and his father sighs.

“Just because I don’t believe it doesn’t mean I don’t have hope, Pa. There has to be somewhere in this world where I can go, someplace where I’m not  _sick_  or  _wrong_ … Maybe the world is waiting for me to find it.” He has quite a lot of time for such a task, and he has been set to doing it for a long time now. And it is easier, Kurt knows, to travel. It’s one thing for his father and Carole to live in these woods, but he and Finn get restless. They need the world, need to stretch their legs and open their eyes and  _see_. If Kurt keeps walking and keeps seeing, maybe he’ll finally find what he’s been looking for.

“I have the highest hope that you will, Son.” 

Burt claps him on the shoulder and the familiar act makes Kurt feel much younger. Because even if he hasn’t been there in a decade, the tiny, rotting cabin is still  _home_. 

“And, you know, you’re always safe here.” Burt shrugs awkwardly and Kurt smiles softly at him. Hummel men are never good at expressing themselves, at least not in any way that leaves them truly vulnerable.

“I know, Pa, I know.”

Home is safe. His father, Carole, and Finn… They all love him, they all make him feel safe. They will always be his family and be there for him. It is a comfort not many can depend on, but Kurt knows he’ll always have it.

Something nags at the back of his mind, ruining the sentimental moment with his father, and he wastes a moment biting his tongue. But it is important—a danger.

“Someone’s been following us.”

This time Burt turns to face him completely, eyebrows drawn deep over his eyes. Kurt fidgets a bit under his gaze. As many times as he’s spent on the end of his father’s looks, they still make him feel like a little a small child.

“This man. We… We saw him a few times. More than can be swept aside as coincidence. Finn and I, we’re always careful. Never stay too long in one area, never use our real names, but… We lost him several times. But he keeps coming back.” He swallows, staring straight into his father’s eyes. “I think he  _knows_  something.”

Finn and Carole clamber over at that moment, red-faced and breathless from laughing, but the look on Burt’s face quickly sobers his wife.

“We’re being followed,” Kurt blurts out without thinking, and he grimaces at the look of shock and worry that settles on Carole’s face. Finn just looks confused, and he shakes his head.

“No, Kurt… We lost him, remember? I don’t think he even saw us get on the ship, there’s no way—”

“We can’t be sure, Finn. He found us. Every single time, he was always the reason we had to up and leave. Somehow, he always found us, he—” Kurt doesn’t even notice the way his voice starts to waver until Carole has wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“It was only a matter of time before someone found us,” Burt comments quietly, settling down in a nearby chair. They all look to him, and he rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking around the circle and meeting with each of theirs for a few moments.

“No going into town.” His tone is final, and Kurt’s mouth falls slightly.

“But Pa—”

“It’s too dangerous right now. If that man is following you, it won’t be long ‘til he shows up here in Lima.” He runs the same hand over his face and, even though he‘s no longer aging, his years are obvious in the depths of his eyes. “Even if he ain’t, I saw tire tracks on the shore of the lake the other day… There’s hardly any forest left, and one day it will be gone.”

The finality of it strikes all of them, and Carole takes both of their hands and squeezes. It’s as comforting as it can be at the time, but none of them are happy to hear that their home, that their _secret_ , is in danger.

“Until then. No one is going to town. We have everything we need here—always have. And if you run into strangers in the woods, if you find someone getting too close…” He pauses, looking at each of them sternly. “You know what to do. No exceptions.”

There have never been any exceptions and they all know that. Luck will hopefully still be on their side; it has been a long while and no one has ever bothered them. Soon, once he gets his fill of his dad, Carole, and home, he will set off again. It will be easier to get away, to go and search and not think about the changing times and the dwindling of the lifestyle he lives and loves so dearly.

Burt sighs heavily, going to stand and letting his true age weigh down his shoulders.

“Time here is almost up.” Finn looks lost, Carole looks sadly resigned, and Kurt doesn’t know how to look or feel at this point. As Burt turns away, he pauses at the door frame, knuckles white as he grips it.

“I can feel it.”


	2. Chapter 2

The summer’s warmth does nothing to diminish Blaine’s love of it.  He is enamored with the warm nights snug like a blanket around his shoulders, the summer storms that tear open the sky seemingly from nowhere, and the sounds of crickets and frogs like night music, weaving together the smell of dew and heat that springs from the forest.

When he was younger, everything had seemed simpler in the summertime. But he’s a man now, and nothing will ever quite be quite as simple again.

Still, Blaine isn’t cruel enough to hold his fate against summer’s sweetness. He’s still as in love with it as he ever was, even beneath his heavy coats and practiced smiles.

Nighttime is his favorite.

The clear nights, of course, where the stars stretch endlessly until the forest seemingly engulfs them. The forest, which sways back and forth in a smooth summer breeze that seems to call to him, tries to tug him deep into the trees and all the secrets that are held there. It would have worked long ago if it weren’t for the fence, and Blaine sometimes wonders if he should be thankful to the iron for keeping his whims at bay or loathe it for keeping him in when all he wants to do is get out.

But nothing quite compares to the fireflies, which never fail to greet him.

It’s hard now to get the chance to see them; even if nights are his time of leisure, he knows that certain activities are selected for his enjoyment. Blaine can read or write or play the piano, or even sing if he is feeling particularly bold, but young men do not go out and chase fireflies. His mother has been reminding him of that quite sternly since he was thirteen.

But that doesn’t stop him from sneaking out the kitchen window as often as he can.

There is one freeing thing about being an Anderson, and that is the privacy such a name endows. No one lives near them. They’ve never had neighbors, something a younger Blaine had always disliked, but now that he’s older, he finds the lack of prying eyes freeing. In the darkness of the night, lit only by the moon and the stars, he can be himself without the judgment and pressure of societal eyes.

Even after years and years of chasing them, Blaine has never quite mastered the art of catching fireflies. Empty jam jar in hand, he darts around the yard, a real smile of childish indulgence pulling at his cheeks until they grow sore. It’s a fruitless endeavor at which he almost always fails, but it’s fun and carefree—everything Blaine’s life normally is not.

“You’ll never catch one that way.”

Blaine stumbles, the jar nearly slipping from his hand and the closest firefly skitters away madly. He turns abruptly, shoulders stiff, to see a strange man standing at the gate. It’s moments like these where Blaine likes the gate; it may keep him in, but it also keeps the outside world out. Most of the time it feels like a cage, but just this once it feels like protection.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and neither does the strange man who seems to have appeared from nowhere. He’s dressed eccentrically, at least in Blaine’s opinion—although, it doesn’t quite compare to the strange ensembles he has seen Mr. Ryerson wear. Still, full yellow suits are not things often seen in little Lima, Ohio, and Blaine can only imagine the raised eyebrows and hushed whispers at such a display.

His mother’s garden party would have a field day.

“Do you know a lot? About catching fireflies?”

It’s a simple question, full of polite inquiry and just a hint of curiosity. Blaine has never intended to catch a firefly, not really, but it doesn’t stop the child inside of him from wanting to. Without realizing it, he is wandering closer to the gate and the strange man in the yellow suit who wears the sort of smile that hides secrets.

“Not particularly.” The man’s hands come up, curling around the iron of the fence. They’re slim hands with long fingers, but not hands that have seen a lot of work—Blaine’s father would call them privileged hands, and that fact puts him a little more at ease. “Never tried. After all, there’s nothing to gain. Why waste my time? No, I prefer… Bigger game.” Blaine feels as if there’s some sort of story he hasn’t been fortunate enough to be a part of, something humorous that tilts the stranger’s lips into a smirk. “Though... I suspect the strategy is much the same.”

“Strategy?” Blaine asks, amused, his eyebrow raising incredulously. Catching fireflies is a children’s game, after all. It’s about chasing and whimsy and faerie lights, not about something as complicated as  _strategy_. Strategy belongs to the chess matches his father would sometimes indulge in or the way a seating chart is arranged at a social gathering, something he’s seen his mother slave over for days at a time while her hair greyed. “Forgive me, sir, but I don’t believe catching fireflies requires something as complex as strategy.” He folds his hands politely in front of him, keeping his manner reined in the way he has been raised to do.

“It is one thing to be better than people, Blaine,” his mother had once told him, “and another thing entirely to brag about such a fact.”

The Andersons have no need to brag about anything. People simply  _know_.

The Man in Yellow says nothing, simply watches Blaine with a look that he can only describe as unobstructed interest. Blaine’s smile flickers, feeling as if he’s suddenly become this man’s prey, and then the man is leaning over the gate and towards him.

“Is that so?” His voice is quieter, darker than before. Blaine steps back before he realizes he is doing so, but then seems to come to and adjusts himself to his full height. True, even hunched as he is, the Man in Yellow is significantly taller than Blaine himself. But Blaine has brains over brawn, and he constantly tells himself that his brains will get him much further in life than a couple of extra inches.

“One must never announce one’s presence to the prey.”

The man’s voice is quiet and his stare is so intense it makes Blaine falter again, if only slightly. His mind begins wondering how protective this gate really is, how fast he can run if he has to. Would his parents notice if he wasn’t in bed tonight? The fact that his mind resounds with a deafening  _no_  is not reassuring. So he remains still, trapped in the man’s dark gaze.

“One must become a part of the scenery.” His words seem to blend with the darkness and the nightly breeze, tainting the summer nights that Blaine loves so dearly.

“ _Invisible_.”

How had Blaine not seen him before he spoke? Had he been so unaware as not to notice this strange man in his strange suit? Blaine feels a sensation at the base of his spine and is quick to recognize it: fear.

“Almost… Disappear.” His voice is getting lower and lower, and Blaine has to fight between stepping closer and running away.

“And be patient,” the man advises, his lips curling up into a knowing smile. He hasn’t stopped looking at Blaine, not for a moment, his gaze fixed like a stalking snake.

Blaine will not be the first to look away.

“Be patient until the exact moment arrives.”

The man’s hand flashes up quickly and Blaine jolts, jarred backwards as if he had just been struck. Only he hadn’t been. The man’s closed fist is held just next to his face and he is grinning, amused at the way Blaine had started.

Blaine finds it difficult to swallow suddenly.

The stranger holds his closed fist out in offering, but Blaine merely shakes his head. With a shrug and a muttered “suit yourself,” he opens his fist and a firefly flutters away in a zigzag. Blaine watches it, shocked that he had not noticed the man grab it and suddenly finding the idea of catching fireflies sickening. Perhaps it is the way its light flickers, or the fact that it seems to fly at a tilt. Captured and injured, just for amusement. It makes Blaine’s stomach curl unpleasantly.

“As you can see, strategy is applicable… Anywhere.”

Blaine’s head whips back towards the man as if he has all of a sudden reappeared. This time, Blaine feels no cowardice when he takes a step backwards.

“But I assume a young man such as yourself would be much better off applying such tactics to finding a beautiful bride.”

Blaine would laugh, because marriage is certainly the last thing he’s thinking about (much to his mother’s distress), but nothing about the situation seems humorous. Even if marriage was on his mind, treating any human being as if they were weak and ignorant—Blaine can’t even imagine.

By now, it’s all too clear how little Blaine wants to do with this man and the secrets swimming behind his eyes. It’s time for him to make his exit, to excuse himself. There are plenty of reasons to, after all, and he simply has to pick one. Then he can forget this night, forget this strange man, and forget the horrible twisting in his stomach.

“Have you lived here long?”

Blaine’s taken aback by the sudden turn in conversation and feels himself settle slightly behind his mask. The Man in Yellow’s voice has turned casual and polite, a tone that Blaine is comfortable with and used to hearing among his social circles.

“Quite,” he answers politely. “All my life, actually.”

The man nods, his fingers tapping against the pointed pikes of the gate as he glances around the estate. He really is like some sort of hunting cat in that yellow suit, or so Blaine thinks. A large hunting cat with shifty eyes and a quiet gait, looking for its next victim… 

His eyes land on Blaine again.

“Perhaps you can help me, then.”

Blaine resists the urge to scoff, as if helping this man who has clearly been playing mind games with him is ridiculous. Help should not come to men like him, and yet Blaine feels the tug of his propriety. He is loath to help and yet his manners make it a necessity.

“I’m visiting, you see, trying to find some… Long-lost relatives of mine, you could call them. I’m wondering if you might know anything.”

It’s a strange request. Lima’s small, smaller than most of the surrounding towns, and it certainly isn’t difficult to find someone if you try hard enough.

“My father practically built Lima,” Blaine finds himself saying. “I’m sure he’d be able to help.” That will be easier. His father is older and he knows how to deal with these sorts of men. Blaine probably should feel more equipped for the situation, but the Man in Yellow has left him completely at a loss.

“I rather like talking to you, actually.”

Blaine stills, his eyes widening as he stares at the strange man and the way his fingers trail over the gate in an almost suggestive movement. He takes another step back.

“Blaine!”

He turns at the sound of his name on the first call, something he rarely does these days. His mother is hustling towards him, a look of annoyance on her face that is quickly smoothed into polite detachment as she views the visitor beyond the gate.

“Hello.” Her voice is strained and overly polite.

“Good evening.” The man gives a nod of his head but shows no other form of greeting. He doesn’t even bother to remove his hat, a pet peeve of his mother’s of which Blaine is well aware.

“Blaine,” his mother turns her cold politeness on him and he mirrors it back at her. “Who are you talking to at this time of night?”  _Didn’t I raise you better than this? Are you insisting on making a fool of me twice in the same week?_  Blaine doesn’t need to have the ability to read minds when his mother’s eyes say it all.

“I don’t know,” Blaine responds coolly, glancing back at the man. “He hasn’t told me his name.” Which is odd, but it hadn’t occurred to Blaine until this point to question it. And now this strange man knows his name, at no one’s fault but his mother’s.

“Pardon me.” Blaine nearly rolls his eyes— _now_  the man chooses to be polite. “I was simply asking your son if he could help me locate some relatives here in Lima. Maybe you could be of assistance?”

Mrs. Anderson turns her nose rather prominently into the air, looking over the man and his strange suit the way she looks over everyone in Lima—as if they are so far beneath her that they really don’t deserve notice.

“I hardly know everyone, nor do I want to.” His mother puts her hand protectively on Blaine’s shoulder, turning him away from the gate. “And I hardly stand outside discussing such things with strangers.” She says it as if the word is disgusting, spitting it from her mouth, and begins to walk Blaine pointedly back toward the house. He knows that once he is through the door, he will be receiving a stern talking to (“Do we need to start barring the windows, Blaine?”), but for once, that seems much better than the alternative.

“Evening, Mrs. Anderson,” the man calls in parting, the too-confident grin back in place on his face. “ _Blaine_.” The word is like a kick in the gut, and Blaine feels his mouth go dry. He watches over his shoulder as the man turns and melts back into the summer darkness, whistling a tune that Blaine has never heard before. It would have been beautiful on any other occasion, but all it does now is make Blaine’s skin crawl unpleasantly.

The haunting notes blend into the breeze, carrying through the night until the door has shut it out. Even then, it continues to play in his head until Blaine is sure he’ll never forget it.

 

 

The clock is too loud.  
  
The clock in the parlor is always too loud and it has always bothered Blaine, but never as much as it does right at this moment.

It’s a strange thing, sitting down for afternoon tea with both of his parents. Blaine sees his father very, very rarely, and tea has never been one of those occasions. Perhaps there is some sort of event that he has forgotten or been unaware of, although the thought does nothing to ease the thick silence between them.

His mother sets her cup down first.

“Blaine,” she begins primly, setting her hands into her lap. His eyes dart between her perfect posture and the way his father continues to sip his tea, and he sits up a bit straighter. “You know, a proper education gains one entry into society.”

He gives a small, confused nod. Yes, that is obvious. Blaine had attended school and, when school had not been sufficient enough, had received tutors. But it’s the summer season now and education isn’t normally a topic his parents broach until society has run itself dry.

“Your father and I…” His mother looks at his father, who sets his teacup down as if following some sort of pre-planned cue. “We’re concerned. You’ve been acting out quite a bit lately.”

_Acting out?_

His eyes widen incredulously. He hasn’t done anything within the past week that is all that surprising. Sneaking out before his wake-up call every morning and running around the yard at night; these activities aren’t new. So he had ruined a suit by playing softball in town, and his mother had lamented the gossip that followed. In a way, Blaine has been waiting for this—punishment. It always comes and, really, he has been biding his time.

“We’ve given this quite a deal of thought,” his father includes adds, and Blaine sits there quietly. Best to take his punishment as the well-raised son he’s expected to be.

“Dalton Academy for Boys has an excellent reputation.”

Blaine blinks, confusion furrowing his eyebrows.

“Dalton?” Blaine is surprised to hear himself speaking, and his own parents seem to mirror the sentiment. “But… That place is like a prison. Everyone  _looks_  the same and  _acts_  the same and—”

“Enough, Blaine.” His mother’s tone is stern and his words drop off abruptly. “That’s  _nonsense_. Boys emerge there as refined young gentleman, well versed in etiquette and manners. Both of which, I’m afraid, you’re sorely lacking.”

That stings. Blaine is nothing if not as polite as he has been raised to be. Is it so bad to crave a bit of freedom every now and again? Is it so improper to want to be Blaine and not just another Mr. Anderson? Why can’t he be a gentleman while keeping who he is intact?

“…I don’t want to be like that,” he mutters quietly, looking down. It’s rude, he knows it is, but he can’t face the looks of disappointment he knows his parents are wearing. His fingers grip around the fabric of his trousers. “I don’t want to be one of those boys.”

Why can’t they understand that? Why is it so important for him to blend into the background? Haven’t they always taught him that being an Anderson makes him special? Doesn’t being  _Blaine_ Anderson make him special, too?

“Which is precisely why you must go. Listen to yourself, Blaine. Imagine what the neighbors would say, seeing you act in this way.” His mother shakes her head, picking up her cup again. She’s drinking tea as if she isn’t talking about packing up Blaine and shipping him away, as if she isn’t treating him like some stain on the family name.

There’s that feeling again, coiling in his legs. He’d felt it before, in town, that feeling of wanting to get away as fast as possible.  _Where will you go?_  It asks him. Blaine wishes he had an answer.

“We can’t let this… Unbridled nature of yours ruin your chances at a respectable future. Come now, Blaine, it all makes perfect sense.” And his mother is seemingly done. She’s patting down her skirts, the way she always does when she settles to finish her tea.

“There is one other option.” His father looks at Blaine over the china of his teacup. He hasn’t lifted it to his lips in what seems like ages, and Blaine finds it unsettling. “You’ve been courting Miss Berry for quite a few months now, and I’m sure she would accept an offer of marriage—”

“Marry  _Rachel?_ ” Blaine sputters indignantly, and his mother shoots him a glare.

“Blaine,” his father says sternly. “You have to understand. We’re only doing what’s best for you.”

That’s where Blaine has had it. Before he knows it, he’s standing, and his mother and father sit back as if they aren’t sure what to do with the sudden dynamic.

“What’s best for  _me_  or what’s best for the  _family_ , father?” And Blaine turns on the heel of his shoe and runs out of the house, runs as far as he can until he is flung against the gate. The gate that he hates and loves; the gate that is trapping him in the one place he can be himself, but that will never accept him that way.

Blaine Anderson is to be sent away to be educated. But what his parents don’t understand is he only wishes to step outside his fence.

So he does.

For some time, he runs. He isn’t sure for how long or for how far, but his house falls away behind him and everything becomes trees, trees everywhere. It isn’t until his breath is gone, his skin hot, that he dares to stop. He has never been in the forest before, has never been allowed, even as a young child.

What in these quiet woods should be so forbidden? Blaine has always sensed a mystery waiting for him here. It is a place so entirely different from what he knows, so far away from his tight, pruned world.

The energy seems to course through him, to run over his skin. The sunlight falls differently, filtered through tree leaves to reach his face, and the air is heavier but  _better_  in a way he can’t quite understand. There are no eyes to see him, no one to judge him, and Blaine can hardly stop himself from smiling.

At least, he can’t stop smiling until he realizes that everything more or less looks the same. While the forest is no doubt beautiful and enchanting, it’s strange and foreign to him. Each tree might be different as Blaine stops to look and admire, but together it is a singular backdrop that is a mass of green no matter which way he turns. His fascination disappears as solid dread fills the space it once occupied; he’s lost.

Of course this would happen; if he’d been using his head more than his heart, a practice his parents had been instilling in him since birth, this wouldn’t have happened. No, he would still be in that living room, signing his life away to one cruel future or another. Blaine had been lost there, too, and alone, but at least there had been warmth and food. What is the point of a free life if he has no life at all?

It is its own sort of punishment, showing him not to be rash and emotional. When he finds his way back he knows that there will be further punishment for his misconduct. In fact, Blaine will be lucky if his things aren’t already packed for Dalton.

The sun had been high in the sky when he’d first crossed the garden gate, but now it has sunk lower. At least, Blaine thinks it’s lower. The light is filtering differently but he can’t exactly see the sky above him. Maybe if he could, he would be able to orient himself and find his way home. So the only thing he can think to do is push towards the sunlight, through the trees and the branches until he finds himself in a clearing.

But he isn’t alone.

There is nothing particularly strange about the clearing aside from the large tree that seems to stand in the center of it and the young man that kneels beside it. Blaine has never seen him before, which is strange because the Andersons know everyone in Lima even if they aren’t particularly worth remembering. Blaine isn’t so good at it yet, but he can usually recognize faces. He is certain, however, that if he had seen this boy before, he definitely would have remembered.

It crosses his mind that maybe this boy is a figment. Blaine isn’t the sort to believe in magic, but the woods certainly feel magical. Perhaps this strange boy is a faerie or a nymph or a sprite. But his knowledge is short on such things, so he really knows no way in which to identify the stranger as such.

One thing is certain. Even in worn trousers and shirt and a waistcoat hanging open improperly across his chest, this boy makes clothes look finer than anyone ever could. The only word Blaine can grasp is  _beautiful_. Indeed, he is far more beautiful than Rachel or any of the other girls he has carried on his arm through the dragging years of his life as a bachelor.

The boy is drinking from the tree, which is odd until he splashes water across his face as well. How strange; Blaine has never seen a spring from a tree, but he pushes the uncomfortable thought away with the knowledge that his intelligence of woodlands isn’t very extensive. 

The tree itself is large in girth and taller than all of the others, and the letter ‘H’ is carved artfully into its bark. This draws Blaine’s attention, but only for a moment, before the boy has tossed his light hair back and is standing. He is all legs and length and Blaine is captivated by him. Too captivated. Captivated to the point that he’s taking a step forward—

 _Snap_.

Startled blue eyes flash around, frightened, and now Blaine is staring at him face-to-face. It’s almost too much but he finds that he can’t look away, no matter how much he wants to turn and dart. It continues this way for an amount of time that seems immeasurable to Blaine. Even the ticking of the pocket watch he carries in his waistcoat falls on deaf ears as they stare at one another, and Blaine finds himself believing in magic right at that moment.

“How long have you been standing there?”

The voice seeps into his skin and buries itself there forever, Blaine is certain. He’s never heard such a voice in all his life and he is sure beyond doubt that he never will again. It takes him a moment to register that his mouth is open, trying and failing to form words as his brain circumnavigates the situation and the boy in front of him.

“Not long.” The words tumble too quickly from his lips and the strange boy raises his eyebrow skeptically. “I… Not long. Not at all. I was just… I was out walking, and I walked past…” Blaine’s voice halts and the silence bubbles between them again. It is unlike him to stumble over his words like he is, and the boy’s subtle but telling reactions are both entrancing and increasingly frustrating.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is detached, dismissive, as if these simple words would be enough to have Blaine turn around without question and walk back into being lost. “It’s dangerous in these woods. It’d be better if you just turned around and went home.” The voice is still even, calm, calculated. Still, it would be terribly easy to listen to it, however. “Go on now.”

Blaine’s eyebrows furrow, his mouth set in a line, and his legs still refuse to move.

“I own these woods.” Well, in a manner of speaking. He certainly will own these woods at one point in his life. “So, excuse me, but I’m welcome to walk where I please and I will ‘go on’ when I so please.” Blaine realizes that he sounds much more grounded than he feels, especially with the way the boy is staring at him. His eyes seem so open, so vulnerable, but Blaine can read nothing in them past the blue and the green and the grey.

“You own these woods?” His voice comes out a bit higher—he’s surprised, and Blaine feels a smug smile tug at his lips.

“Yes. I do.” This is the part where the strange boy understands his mistake, apologizes for being rude, and introduces himself. If Blaine is lucky, he might even offer to walk with him back to town and then he won’t have to deal with the uncomfortable acknowledgement of being lost in what is practically his own backyard.

“What’s your name?”

Again, there is that uncomfortable feeling that whoever this boy is, he doesn’t know who Blaine is. He isn’t narcissistic, of course, but is it his fault that everyone in Lima knows of the Andersons? Knows of him?

“Blaine. Anderson. Blaine Anderson.”

This seems to be enough. The strange boy stands straighter, eyebrows shooting up incredulously. He takes a few steps closer to Blaine, eying him up and down in a way that makes Blaine want to curl his arms around himself in an attempt to shield himself.

“An Anderson?” His voice does not portray feelings of intimidation or scheming or even polite interest. It is genuine curiosity, with perhaps a pique of amusement that Blaine doesn’t quite understand. “Well, isn’t that interesting.” Blaine’s eyebrows furrow. Yes, they might own the woods and hardly set foot in them, but they’re still Anderson property.

“No, it is not.” This time, he does cross his arms defiantly, and the strange boy just looks all the more entertained by it. “What is interesting is that you’re here. That’s trespassing.” Blaine is adopting every attitude he has ever seen his mother and father portray, donning the façade that he uses in the company of polite society. It’s a person he has never wanted to be, but this boy is beginning to infuriate him.

“Trespassing?” He chuckles, shaking his head and glancing over his shoulder. Blaine watches him closely, the way his strange eyes take on a distant look. “There’s a trespasser here and it certainly isn’t me.” It’s quiet enough that Blaine hardly catches it, but it’s the tone that stops him from saying anything. It grows silent for a few moments, Blaine watching the stranger and he being too far-gone to notice Blaine’s lingering gaze.

He turns back suddenly, startling Blaine into taking a step back.

“You’re still here, Blaine Anderson?” His name sounds sharp in the boy’s musical voice and Blaine fights back a wince. Aside from his own mother, no one ever jars him this much—so why and how is this boy doing it so easily?

“Yes. As I said, I am quite allowed to take a walk in my own woods if I please.” He raises his chin, but even doing so hardly makes him feel superior to the boy who is staring him down. There’s something about him, even in his weather-worn and travel-beaten clothing, that makes Blaine feel small again. He swallows, wishing he could continue on with his fictional walk and find his way home.

“So you are. Then I suggest you walk away from this place.” The blue eyes turn cold and any amusement is gone from his face. He stares Blaine down, and Blaine can do nothing but stare back. “Turn around and walk home.”

His nerves betray him and he fidgets, his hands clasping together in a way that the boy instantly takes notice of.

“I was. Walking home, that is. Or. Trying to. You see, it’s not often that I walk these woods and it was an… Impromptu urge that spurred it on, so I wasn’t—“

“So, you’re lost?”

It is enough to sacrifice his pride if only to erase the cold and distant look in the other boy’s eyes—he is amused again, eyebrow raised. No one has ever looked at Blaine that way, not that he can remember. Blaine has been made fun of, been whispered about and stared at, and these are things he has learned to assimilate into his life and either accept or ignore. But he was not playfully teased, not ever, and this boy seems to be breaking rules that Blaine has always thought were a constant in his life.

“I believe that is the simplest way of putting it.”

The boy moves closer again and Blaine’s eyes flick to meet his.

“I don’t make a habit of being simple, although my pa insists that I become rather blunt when I belittle.”

Blaine probably should take that more to heart—after all, he’s just admitted to belittling him. But he’s more focused on the way he says the word ‘pa.’ Not only does it erase whatever small part of Blaine’s mind that thinks he’s talking to a wood sprite, but the single word is filled with warmth in a way that Blaine simply can’t comprehend. He loves his father, of course he does, but Blaine has never felt the amount of affection that the stranger has infused in a single word.

“Who are you?” He has to ask, has to know. If he knows, maybe this won’t have to be the end of their exchanges. Blaine is fascinated and he is sure that this is what he’s been feeling, what he’s been waiting for. It’s an opportunity for friendship like he’s never been offered before.

But the boy averts his gaze, staring off into the woods. “I’m no one.” When he looks back, his expression is distant again. “I’ll point you home, but you should forget that this happened. Forget this place. Forget me.”

It takes effort for Blaine not to visibly dig his heels into the forest floor.

“I’m not leaving until you give me a name.”

The boy’s eyes narrow sharply and he closes the distance between them in a few quick strides. Blaine hardly stops himself from stepping back. 

“Really?”

It occurs to Blaine then that he is in the middle of the woods with a stranger. His parents don’t know where he is and he’s apparently done something to offend this beautiful boy. Is a name really so much to ask?

“It’s just a name.” Blaine tries to keep his voice even; he fails.

“Then I do not understand why you are so adamant about getting it.”

The boy has moved so close that their toes are nearly touching, and it makes Blaine’s heart stutter and beat erratically in his chest. He feels like he’s being examined and there is the ever present fear that he may actually be in some sort of danger, but there’s something else. He feels hotter than normal under the collar of his shirt, like he has a fever. He longs to press his hand to his forehead and check for sure; it would be just his luck to fall ill in the middle of the forest.

Those blue eyes sweep over his face and they must see something there because they widen in shock before the stranger stumbles back a few steps. His reaction is so extreme that Blaine nearly looks over his shoulder to see if there’s a bear standing behind him. Instead, he lifts an eyebrow and takes a hesitant step forward.

“Are you okay?”

He seems to come back to himself then, blinking and looking away. His face is flushed and Blaine’s beginning to wonder if there’s something in the air making this happen. Nothing is said and Blaine takes another step forward, although this seems to draw the boy’s attention once more.

“You’re supposed to be leaving,” he says, although his voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was before.

“And you’re supposed to be giving me a name.”

The boy lets out a noise of frustration and steps back towards Blaine.

“You’re persistent.”

Blaine just folds his hands in front of himself and looks at the boy with patience. It must become plain to him that Blaine really has no intention to leave unless he is physically forced.

“It’s Paul,” he says dismissively. Blaine grins.

“Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Paul, despite the unconventional means.” Blaine holds out his hand; it’s what he’s been raised to do, what he’s supposed to do, but so far Paul hasn’t exactly been following social regulations. He didn’t even present his last name, despite knowing Blaine’s, but Blaine decides to let it go. It had been difficult enough getting the one name.

Paul hesitates again, but finally slips his hand into Blaine’s.

Unlike what Blaine would expect from someone he meets in the middle of a forest, Paul’s hands are clean and pale as milk next to Blaine’s darker complexion. They aren’t smooth the way Blaine knows his hands are; Paul’s hands are slightly calloused from use and, if Blaine hadn’t known Paul’s status by his threadbare clothing, he would have definitely known it by the feel of his fingers.

Paul doesn’t seem to return Blaine’s sentiment and draws back from the brief contact as if Blaine’s hand is made of fire.

“You got your name, so it’s best you go now.”

Blaine deflates slightly. He had truly believed he might get a friend out of this, or at least a new acquaintance. He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted someone who treated him like everyone else before the moment it happened.

“Well, um…” Blaine pinches the fabric of his shirt collar. “I believe, before that brief digression, you had just pointed out the fact that I am very much lost.”

Paul nods to himself for a few moments.

“I suppose it does no harm to point you on your way.”

Relief and gratitude course through Blaine and he smiles with every ounce of it.

“I’d be much obliged.”

Paul moves towards him, stretching the flat of his palm out almost as if he intends to touch Blaine—he doesn’t, but the motion alone prompts Blaine to turn around. They’ve moved a few steps when Blaine stops and Paul shoots him an annoyed look.

“I apologize, but I’ve been in the forest for a few hours. If you don’t mind, I’ll just grab a drink of water and then we can be on our way.” Blaine flashes a smile and then turns, but he’s hardly walked two steps before Paul’s hand is closing tightly over his bicep. He looks back in surprise.

“You can’t drink that water,” Paul says, his voice even. Blaine furrows his eyebrows.

“Why not?”

“It’s... Not good for you. I think I saw some toads in it.”

Blaine wrinkles his nose but attempts to shake Paul off of him anyway.

“I saw you drink from it, and you seem perfectly fine. Besides, I’m dry as dust.” Blaine breaks away and moves a few steps closer but then Paul is there again, standing between Blaine and the spring.

“I said no.”

Blaine furrows his eyebrows and frowns, moving to push past Paul when he is roughly shoved backwards. He stumbles, eyes wide, and stares up at Paul in a sudden onset of fear. A stranger with a name is still a stranger, and even if Paul has done nothing towards him to signify that he’s dangerous, that doesn’t mean he isn’t. Blaine really needs to leave.

So he turns on his heel and he runs.

“Wait!”

Whatever Paul wants from him now, Blaine has no intention of finding out. ‘ _He shoved me. He actually shoved me. No one has ever shoved me before_.’

Branches swipe at him as he runs and he pushes against them as much as he can; there isn’t time to find a clearer path and a few scratches aren’t all that bad. Blaine can hear Paul hurrying after him and doesn’t understand why he’s being followed or what he did wrong. He just knows that he should keep running.

He tosses a glance back over his shoulder, wondering how much distance separates him from his pursuer, when he runs into something—hard—and nearly falls backwards. He would have, he’s sure, if the thing he’d run into hadn’t grabbed his arms.

Blaine turns to look slowly and sees another unknown man there, staring at him strangely and then looking over his shoulder as Paul runs closer.

“Kurt, who is this?”

Blaine blinks in confusion, looking over his shoulder at Paul—well, actually, apparently it’s  _Kurt_. But it only takes him a few moments to realize that whoever it is he’s run into  _knows_  him and that can’t be any good for Blaine.

“Let me go,” Blaine grits, attempting to wrench himself free, but the man before him is strong and holds fast.

“...I ran into him by the spring,” Kurt admits reluctantly and when he looks at Blaine he actually looks remorseful. Blaine doesn’t understand it and the thought to question it leaves his head as soon as the man forces him into movement.

“Let me go!” He demands louder. “My father could have you arrested for this!” This is kidnapping, isn’t it? Or assault? “Help! Someone help me!”

A hand claps over his mouth and he stills, eyes wide.

“Please be quiet,” Kurt whispers. “Go ahead and tell Pa, will you? Leave Hutch here with me and I’ll take care of it.”

Blaine watches the stranger who nods after a couple moments of contemplation. He doesn’t let go of Blaine until an arm—Kurt’s arm—is wrapped tightly around his waist. And then he’s gone, disappearing into the thickets of trees.

“I’m going to take my hand off of your mouth now. Don’t scream. It won’t do you no good anyways. There’s no one but us around for miles.”

Kurt slowly removes his hand and Blaine doesn’t scream. He can’t scream all that loudly, anyway, and he hasn’t been gone long enough for anyone to be looking for him yet. But people will be looking; as soon as night falls and he doesn’t come home, his father will send people to find him. It’s only a matter of time.

“Are you going to kill me?” He asks instead, his voice quiet and resigned. He can feel Kurt’s body become rigid with surprise behind him.

“Why would you ever think that?”

“Well, how else do you take care of something?”

“I’m just bringing you to meet my pa, that’s all.” Kurt moves around Blaine and the way his arm twists around Blaine’s middle makes him shudder. But Kurt quickly goes to grab Blaine’s arm and begins tugging him forward. Blaine doesn’t fight so much this time, although he does drag his feet just a bit. It isn’t long before they break through a line of trees and see a horse grazing there. It looks up in interest at their approach.

“Hey there, Hutch.” Kurt’s voice is riddled with affection as he touches the stallion on its thick neck. “You ever ride a horse before?” Kurt asks as he turns to look at Blaine again. He hasn’t, but he isn’t about to admit that.

“It doesn’t have a saddle,” is what he says instead.

“Astute. Come now, get on.” He holds out his hands and Blaine looks at them in confusion. “Step up,” he says, slowly, and Blaine bristles at the tone. This sounds like a horrible idea, it really does. The horse doesn’t even have reins; how exactly do they plan on riding it?

Kurt makes a sound of impatience, and so Blaine hurries to place his foot in Kurt’s cupped hands. He’s lifted almost instantly and makes an undignified sound of surprise before he swings his leg over and settles onto the horse’s back; Hutch doesn’t budge an inch. Kurt heaves himself up easily behind Blaine and gives the horse a small pat and then they’re on their way.

Blaine would be concentrating on how very much he feels like he’s going to fall off the horse and be horribly injured (despite them traveling at an easy trot), but he’s distracted by the heavy, warm feel of Kurt’s chest pressed against his back. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and it makes Blaine’s heartbeat quicken. 

“So... Kurt?” Blaine asks after a few moments of silence.

“Yes?” Kurt replies, a hint of amusement in his smile.

“If you were just going to abduct me, I don’t see why you bothered using another name.”

It’s quiet for a few moments and when Kurt does speak again, his voice is quiet as if he’s afraid the trees might hear them.

“Maybe that’s because I really did just want you to go home.”

Blaine is confused, but he doesn’t ask any other questions. After all, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. If Kurt didn’t want to abduct him then why did he chase him and do just that?


	3. Chapter 3

The treeline ends abruptly, and suddenly the horse’s hooves are trodding against the soft ground that shores a rather large, beautiful lake. Blaine had never known there was a lake in this forest; he isn’t even sure if his father knows that much. They continue on in silence and Blaine can’t help but wonder if Kurt had been lying before; maybe they’re going to throw him into the lake. It would work, after all—he can’t swim.

Blaine doesn’t notice the house until the horse is slowing down. In fact, if he hadn’t known they were headed somewhere, he wouldn’t have seen it at all. It’s made completely of wood, but it actually  _looks_  like wood, unlike the houses in town. There’s no paint on the outside, no iron gates or fixings. There’s a porch, two windows, and a door, but Blaine can’t see much else. The little house disappears back into the woods, hidden from sight, almost like the walls and roof grew straight out of the trees.

There are myriad clotheslines stretched from the roof to a tall, thick tree that hangs with ornaments like it’s Christmas time. But they aren’t the sort of ornaments Blaine is used to seeing during the holidays; there are bottles full of sand, random pieces of silverware and cloth, buttons, trinkets, and glittering prisms tied to branches by pieces of ribbon and string. It’s the strangest thing Blaine thinks he’s ever seen and he can just imagine what his mother’s reaction would be.

There’s a woman crouched in a small, fenced garden at the side of the house, a large straw hat sitting on her head as she hums and plucks carrots into her woven basket.

“Finn? Did you go and get Kurt for—” Her voice falters as she turns to look over her shoulder, her eyes homing in on Blaine immediately. He feels small in her gaze in a way he’s been raised not to; he’s an Anderson, he’s better than them, and yet every inch of him feels so childish at that moment.

He’s just a silly boy who threw a fit and ran into the woods.

“Kurt...” She looks at the boy tucked up tightly against Blaine’s back and Blaine can feel how Kurt’s sigh tickles at his scalp.

“He saw me at the spring,” Kurt admits, his voice level. He swings off from behind Blaine so abruptly that Blaine is sure he’ll fall, but Kurt just tugs Blaine off the horse as well. He falls to his knees, his legs wobbly and unable to support him, and he stays there, staring at the ground. Blaine’s  _terrified_.

“...he’s an Anderson.”

The woman gasps and it makes Blaine wince. He can’t even look up at her, is afraid of what he’ll see on her face. That wasn’t the sort of gasp his mother makes when unexpected company comes by and she needs to primp and call for tea. It was the bad kind of gasp, like when Blaine wakes up from a nightmare or the water in his bath is too cold.

There’s a sudden warm hand on his shoulder and Blaine starts, head snapping up to see the woman there. She’s older, older than his mother but not terribly old, and her face is warm and kind beneath the shade of her hat.

“Come off the ground now, child. You can’t be comfortable down there.”

Blaine bristles slightly—he is  _not_  a child—but he stands. He’s not about to start arguing with his kidnappers. She helps him up, her hands soothing and motherly and Blaine fights not to be comforted by them.

“I want to go home,” he whispers, petulant, and the woman frowns at him, eyebrows knit together with worry. She’s silent, hand smoothing over his arm, and then she’s glancing over his shoulder.

“Kurt? Go and fetch your father, will you?”

“I sent Finn.”

Finn must be the other boy, the one who’d caught Blaine to begin with. He’s beginning to wonder how many of them there are and what chances he’ll have of ever escaping. Then again, he wouldn’t get far. They rode the horse for what seemed like a good long time and all the scenery they’d passed had looked the same.

Even if he could escape he’d be lost within minutes and they’d no doubt catch him again.

“Then you can help me with dinner. Come on, let’s get inside.” She goes to wrap her arm around Blaine’s shoulders and he steps back and away from her, right into Kurt’s chest. He feels so trapped.

“Please.” He stares at this kind woman and hopes that her kindness supersedes whatever reason they brought him here. “Please, I just want to go home. Can’t I go home?”

She looks over his shoulder at Kurt again and then smiles sadly at him.

“We’ll get you home as soon as we can,” she assures, but Blaine doesn’t feel very comforted. It’s been many years since a mother’s empty promises have held any consolation for him.

Blaine crosses his arms around himself protectively, turning his head away and staring into the forest. The  _stupid_  forest that is the whole reason he’s in this mess now. Did he really have much of a choice, though? He’d be a prisoner either way.

 _At least at Dalton I would have been a prisoner by choice_ , he thinks dismally.

“Do you like stew, Mr. Anderson?” The woman asks and just having someone addressing him properly makes his shoulders draw back so that he’s standing taller. But this isn’t a woman in his mother’s social circle; he doesn’t even know her name, much less what kind of family she comes from.

Blaine’s certainly never heard of a family who lives in the woods.

He nods minutely, because he was asked a question and he is still a proper gentleman, and the woman smiles. She clasps her hands together and then turns, basket of carrots swaying in the bend of her elbow as she heads up the steps to the porch.

“Carole,” Kurt says from behind him, and Blaine turns with a raised eyebrow. “Her name is Carole.” He doesn’t provide a last name and Blaine doesn’t call people his senior by their  _first names_ , that’s completely improper. But Kurt is referring to his own mother by her first name and that in itself is incredibly peculiar. Then again, this entire situation is peculiar.

When Blaine continues to not respond, Kurt touches his arm gently and gives him a little nudge forward.

“Come inside. Running into those woods is more dangerous now than coming with us.” Kurt turns to stare into the darkness of the forest, his eyes far away. “The trees go for miles and you’d be lost in minutes.”

The forest has secrets, and Blaine is suddenly sure that Kurt and his family aren’t the worst of them.

The wood of the porch is sturdy and weathered and so raw beneath his feet; he’s used to polished wooden panels and slabs of marble and granite, and this is all so incredibly new. The inside is one large room with two doors set into the back wall and a ladder leading up to the rafters, boards laid across them to create a makeshift second floor. It might lack the ornate qualities that come with gilding and paint, but most of the wood is delicately carved into intricate shapes and the fabrics of the curtains and furniture are rich and beautiful.

It’s so unlike any home Blaine has ever been in before, but it’s the only one that has ever felt properly lived in. Every inch of it looks and feels loved and it’s so strange to Blaine that he can’t move more than a few steps into the room, feet rooted in the floor.

“My pa built this house,” Kurt says from the doorway behind him. “A long time ago.” He’s silent and still for a few moments before he moves around Blaine to join Carole in the corner of the room that serves as their kitchen.

Blaine’s father built their house, too, but he knows the difference. Blaine’s father hadn’t used his own hands; he’d designed every inch of it but he hadn’t touched a single tool as it came together. But Kurt’s father built this entire building, down to the glass fit into the windowpanes.

The summer heat in Ohio is sticky, but a cool breeze blows into the house off the lake and chills Blaine’s back. His eyes trace every contour of the room but he’s particularly transfixed by the ornate carvings of trees, vines, and leaves on one of the main pillars supporting the ceiling. Before he’s aware of it, he’s standing right in front of it, hands tracing over the delicate shapes cut into the wood.

“Burt was a carpenter,” a voice says from behind him, and Blaine turns to see Carole standing there and smiling. “Long time ago now,” she muses, admiring the work.

“Did he…?” Blaine asks before he can stop himself, and Carole smiles at him.

“No. That’d be Kurt. Burt taught him to whittle when he was a wee thing and Kurt covered every bit of wood with his carvings. Burt never understood it much, but I always thought it was lovely.”

Blaine looks over at Kurt in the kitchen, his face pinched in concentration as his hand guides a blade in chopping carrots. Aside from playing the piano, Blaine can’t do very much with his hands. He couldn’t cut carrots if he was asked to—he’d never been expected to do something as simple as that. He can’t cook or clean or make any sort of living for himself with the skills he has. He has a basic education, but a lot of good that’ll do him if he doesn’t get further schooling.

His thoughts are broken as Kurt starts to whistle, the notes high and clear in the silence of the house, almost like birdsong. It’s lovely and… Strangely familiar.

“I know that song,” Blaine says softly, and Carole turns to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“Kurt always whistles or hums it. Has for a long time. I reckon the mockingbirds decided they liked it quite a bit,” Carole supplies and Blaine nods absently. Yes, that must be it—it’s why Blaine had likened it to birdsong in the first place, surely.

“Now, Mr. Anderson, you don’t need to lend a hand, don’t feel that you have to, but it’d be mighty helpful if you were up to peeling some potatoes.”

 

 

The stew is simmering on the stovetop and Blaine is hissing as Carole dabs at all the little nicks on his fingers with a damp cloth. Peeling potatoes hadn’t sounded hard, but Blaine had never done it before and he’d certainly never held a knife that small. Carole kept insisting that none of the cuts were that bad, but they still stung like no other.

“Just a few war wounds,” she says, patting at his hands and smiling, and he pulls them closer to his body, inspecting the tiny cuts.

The sun is long past gone now and the cabin is lit with candles and oil-burning lamps; it’s dimmer than Blaine’s own home, and he surprisingly doesn’t find the abundance of shadows eerie. Kurt left some time ago, and it’s just been him and Carole. She’s kind, and her presence isn’t as demanding as Kurt’s seems to be; when he’s in the room, he draws all of Blaine’s attention and it’s distracting as well as confusing.

She doesn’t force conversation on him, and hums to herself and smiles whenever he happens to glance over. She’s trying to put him at ease and it works, to a degree, but the world around him is strange and it’s hard for him to feel settled.

“We don’t mean you any harm, you know,” Carole says suddenly and Blaine looks up at her from where he’d been staring at his hands. He frowns and looks away again, flexing his fingers and staring at the marks on his hands as if they’re proof of how much harm they are causing him.

“If that’s true, then why did you bring me here?” He asks quietly, still not looking at her. “Why am I here?” Blaine might have run away, but he finds he’d give anything to go home again, to forget about this family and their small and intricate home, and the boy with the too-blue eyes. Maybe his parents will be more reasonable now; maybe they’ll let him negotiate some sort of compromise.

Maybe he can even marry Rachel like his father had suggested.

Blaine thinks of Kurt for a moment, just a moment, and he shrinks away from that idea. No. He won’t marry for anything but love and he certainly doesn’t love Rachel, even if her company can be quite entertaining.

“I want to go home,” Blaine whispers for what feels like the hundredth time that day, and Carole’s hand settles lightly on his shoulder.

“I know you’re upset,” she says quietly, her tone full of regret. “Lord knows your family must be worried sick about you. I know I’d be, if it were my boys gone and disappeared into the woods.”

Blaine keeps his eyes averted and stops himself from asking the obvious question; if she understands, why won’t she just let him go?

The door opens, and Blaine sees her stand out of the corner of his eye. He lifts his head at the sound of heavy footsteps against the wooden floor and sees a balding, gruff-looking man entering the house, trailed by Kurt and Finn.

“This the child?” He asks and Blaine has the urge to shrink back into the couch. Not for the first time, he wishes he could go back and stop himself from ever entering the woods.

“He’s no child, Burt,” Carole chides, sending a small smile to Blaine. He’s not, but right now might not be the best time to point that out.

 _So this is Burt_.

Blaine’s eyes flick back and forth between father and son and it’s strange, how little resemblance they have to one another. Burt is shorter than his sons, and broad, with strong shoulders and large hands, and signs of hardship written all over his face. There are wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, signs of laughter and smiling, and Blaine thinks that he must not always be so horribly intimidating.

He feels pathetic, shrinking into the arm of the couch like a cornered mouse, but he can’t think of what else to do.

Four pairs of eyes are trained on him and no one is speaking as Burt’s heavy footsteps approach Blaine. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at him, eyes moving rapidly as if he’s looking for something and having a hard time finding it. Blaine doesn’t move under the scrutiny, his muscles only relaxing when Burt turns to Carole and they move to the other side of the house where Kurt and Finn are waiting.

Blaine contemplates running again. He looks at the door and wonders how far he would get, but he knows that in the dark, he’d be even more hopeless.

 _You’d be lost in minutes_ , Kurt’s voice taunts him in his head, and Blaine frowns. Not to mention that Kurt and his family own a horse and probably know these woods as well as Blaine knows his own bedroom.

Instead, he watches them. They’re circled together, voices hushed, and every so often one of them looks over at him. Blaine tries to think of what he could have possibly done to end up in this position, but he comes up blank every time. These woods belong to his father, he knows that much, so there’s no way he’s in trouble for trespassing. If anything, they’re the ones on his land.

What do they want with him?

Why won’t they let him go home?

He’s still staring at them when Kurt’s eyes flick up to meet his and stay there. His look is resigned as he stares at Blaine, and Blaine feels something like fear knot in his stomach.  _They’re going to kill me_.

What else would they do with him?

Kurt looks away and Blaine feels the breath rush out of him, the weight of his fate hitting him in the gut. If he’s going to die, the least they could do is tell him  _why_  first.

He stands on stiff legs, feeling like he’s somehow become the wood that surrounds him on every side, and walks slowly over to them. They aren’t throwing glances his way anymore, and as he approaches he can hear the tail end of their discussion.

“—too dangerous, we can’t have someone out there knowing.”

“That’s why I brought him to you, Burt, you said that if anyone found out—”

“And I keep telling you he doesn’t know anything. Pa, I told you. He saw me, that’s it.”

“But if he knows where—”

“He doesn’t. Trust me, he couldn’t get back there no matter how many times he tried. He got lost leaving his own house, he’s not going to know—”

“What don’t I know?” Blaine asks before he can help himself, and all four heads turn in his direction at once. It’s clear he’s surprised them but it doesn’t stop him from rooting to the spot, feeling like prey in the eyes of a snake.

All of them are silent. They don’t offer any further information as they look at him, and Blaine shifts his weight, wishing for the imagined safety the corner of the couch had provided him.

“Burt,” Carole says suddenly, shattering the silence. “This is Mr. Anderson.”

Blaine feels as if it’s a little late for introductions, but he doesn’t comment. It’s not his business to concern himself with how improper others are, or so his mother had always told him. It doesn’t matter if they all should have introduced themselves properly upon first meeting; it merely colors Blaine’s opinions of their upbringing and their manners.

Not to mention the fact that they kidnapped him, and that’s reason enough to have issues with their character.

But despite his reluctance, Blaine won’t let their impropriety diminish his upbringing as a gentleman. He gives a bow of his head and offers his hand; he doesn’t accompany it with his normal, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” because it most certainly is not a pleasure in any way.

Burt surveys him for a moment before an amused sort of grin stretches across his face, his hand closing around Blaine’s in a shake—it’s rough, much rougher than Kurt’s hand had been when they’d shaken earlier, but Carole had mentioned that Burt was once a carpenter, so every callous makes sense.

The others watch them, lips pressed together as if they’re trying not to laugh, and Burt keeps hold of his hand much longer than is strictly necessary. Blaine feels at a loss again, like he’s in the midst of a joke that he’ll never hear the beginning or end of.

“This is the most important thing to happen in this house in... What?” Burt looks over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn up and his face suddenly seems so much kinder.

“Eighty years, give or take,” Carole supplies, her voice warm, and Burt nods.

“Eighty years.” He turns back to Blaine and finally releases his hand. Blaine pulls it back, flexing his fingers and looking between the four of them warily.

“You must not get houseguests very often,” he concludes, because what’s so important about Blaine being there? But rather than offering any information, in a way Blaine is beginning to assume is quite natural for them, they all start laughing.

Blaine is suddenly concerned that he’s been kidnapped by a family of crazy people.

“You hungry, Mr. Anderson?” Burt asks, grinning at him in full this time—Blaine can see the way his wrinkles fold into their laugh lines and he really does look kind and friendly now. If Blaine had perhaps met him in town, in the street, he’d have never taken him for a kidnapper. Strange to think how wrong he would have been.

“Dinner should be good and ready,” Carole interjects, and begins herding them towards the table. “Mr. Anderson even helped—peeled the potatoes and everything.”

Blaine resists the urge to groan; he’s sure that peeling potatoes isn’t normally a novelty, but he’s an  _Anderson_  so of course it would be reason enough for gossip. If his mother ever found out he peeled potatoes, he’d never hear the end of it—of that Blaine is quite certain. Feeling quite humiliated, he hides his hands surreptitiously behind his back and shuffles along after the family to their kitchen table. It’s oddly large for a family of four, but he doesn’t comment on it.

When he does glance up, though, Kurt is looking at him again. It’s a simple shared glance, but this time Kurt smiles, small and hesitantly. It’s the first smile Kurt has shown him since their initial meeting in the woods—it seems so long ago now, the memory light and harmless and completely misleading. And still this smile is different; where before Kurt had been teasing and mocking him, his smiles full of amusement, now his smile seems genuine. So Blaine returns it with just as much caution before Carole is drawing his attention and directing him into a chair.

He’s thankful when she sits beside him, smiling and thanking him again for the potatoes. He doesn’t trust these people, but he’s spent the most time with Carole and she’s done nothing but show him kindness. He turns to look at her as the others settle at the table, feeling the manners he was raised with come to the surface. She glances over at him, looking expectant but patient.

“I... Just wanted to thank you for your hospitality, Mrs—” He stops, feeling embarrassment heat his cheeks, because he has no idea what these people’s last name is.

“Hummel, dear.” She pats his arm reassuringly.

“Mrs. Hummel, then.”

Something clatters on the table and Blaine’s attention is drawn to it; Kurt is sitting right across from him and has apparently tipped over his empty glass. He’s staring at Blaine again, but it’s different this time; his mouth is open in surprise and there’s something close to pain in his eyes. But then it’s gone—Kurt looks down, rights his cup, and the moment is swallowed up as conversation swells around the table.

“No fish?” Finn grumbles and Blaine watches as Burt gives him a glare, but Carole just laughs and brushes the criticism away with a brush of her hand.

“They just weren’t biting today, I’m afraid. Maybe tomorrow you and Burt could take the boat out?”

“You be quiet and eat your stew, boy,” Burt says and Finn just grins.

“It’s good stew, ma.”

She preens slightly, opening her mouth to talk again, but Blaine doesn’t pay attention. The conversation becomes a buzz as he stares down at his soup, pushing a piece of carrot around with his spoon. He really should be hungry; he hasn’t eaten since breakfast and he knows that the ache in his stomach comes from the fact that it’s empty.

“You should eat.”

Blaine looks up and Kurt is staring across at him again. Kurt’s face is incredibly expressive but it doesn’t help Blaine if he can’t read the emotions that flash across it. He’s never had to read people before; among their social circles, everyone wears a mask and no one ever tries to look past it. Blaine accepts all of those people at face value because he doesn’t want to know what’s behind the façade, what those people are really like.

Kurt’s wearing a mask, but it’s unlike any mask Blaine has ever seen before. And this time Blaine is dying to know what lies underneath it.

“I’m not hungry,” he replies with a dismissive shrug. Kurt watches him, eyebrows knit together in what Blaine would call concern if that emotion made any sense on Kurt’s face. Kurt’s the reason he’s here—there’s no reason for him to be concerned. Do kidnappers normally treat their prisoners with such hospitality?

“No, you’re in shock.”

Blaine looks up from where his attention had drifted back to his stew, surprised that Kurt is still talking to him.

“I wonder why,” Blaine bites back before he can help himself, and immediately colors at how  _rude_  he just was. But Kurt doesn’t look offended; he cocks an eyebrow and regards Blaine as if  _he’s_ the puzzle in this equation. Blaine stops himself from pointing out that  _no_ , Kurt is most certainly the enigma that Blaine finds himself desperately wanting to understand.

But it’s not just Kurt. It’s this entire family. Blaine doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something different about them that he can’t put his finger on. In the end, the question is whether or not his curiosity is worth it. Does he give in and let himself be held captive just for the chance of solving the riddle? Or does he fight, tooth and nail, to head back to the dull life that’s never held any secrets?

“You’ll be hungry in a few hours when it wears off.” Kurt takes a loaf from the bread basket, breaking off a hunk and then setting it down by Blaine’s bowl. He stares at the offering but he isn’t thinking about his stomach; he’s thinking about his shock wearing off in a few  _hours_  and the reality settles around his shoulders. He’s growing up and life isn’t a storybook—riddles and secrets might intrigue him but they certainly aren’t going to save his life.

Because this isn’t a game and Blaine is very much being held against his will.

“My father will come looking for me,” he insists suddenly, and Kurt falters where he’s lifting a piece of bread to his mouth. The table falls silent and Blaine doesn’t need to look up to know that all of them are looking at him.

He feels like an animal in a cage.

“Cut down the entire forest to do it, too,” Burt agrees, reaching down the table for the bread. No one speaks. “Things are changing in Lima and your father’s a smart man, Mr. Anderson. He’s going to make himself very rich.”

“Burt,” Carole says, her voice disapproving. Blaine looks up then, turning to meet Burt’s stare.

“My father is a rich man,” he says evenly. “He can pay you. Anything you want. He’ll do it.” Blaine doesn’t know, not for sure, not after his display that afternoon, but his parents do love him, don’t they? Surely they’re looking for him and they would pay any ransom the Hummels might demand?

Burt goes from hard to soft in a matter of seconds, and he shakes his head, sighing as he looks away.

“We don’t want your father’s money, Mr. Anderson.”

“Then what do you want from me?” The question bursts out of him and maybe the shock has broken sooner than Kurt had predicted. Blaine suddenly feels hysterical, his breathing becoming erratic. “Please, just let me go home.” Andersons do not beg, but Blaine is.

“We will.” Carole reaches out to touch him again and he shakes her off, moving as far as he can in his chair without standing. “We’ll let you go home as soon as we can, just like I promised.”

“But I thought we couldn’t trust him?”

Blaine’s wide eyes turn to Finn, but he’s looking at Burt as if he’s confused.

“Trust me?” Blaine’s voice comes out strangled. Burt sighs heavily again.

“We need to be able to trust you before we can let you go, Mr. Anderson.”

He doesn’t give a reason as to why and no one else seems to be supplying him with one. He looks at each of their faces in turn, the  _why_  on the tip of his tongue when Finn says, “But he’s normal.”

Carole shushes him immediately and Blaine looks at Finn, who is staring at him as if  _normal_  somehow translates to dangerous.

“Ma, we can’t trust normal people, not ever. Not him, not no one, Burt always says—”

“Finn,” Carole shushes again and Blaine feels lost again. Normal people? What does that even mean? Aren’t they all normal? If anything, isn’t Blaine the strange one in this situation?

“No, Ma, you guys have always told us to keep quiet, protect the secret—”

“Maybe he’s different.”

Finn falls quiet and Blaine turns to stare at Kurt in surprise. Only Kurt seems just as surprised to have said it, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. Blaine doesn’t know what happens next, his eyes fixed on Kurt’s as they stare back at him, but for some reason Finn stands from the table and leaves without another word.

 

 

“You’re not normally one for dramatic exits.” Kurt walks out onto the porch, watching Finn saddle the horse in the glow of the cabin’s lamps. Finn doesn’t say anything, brushing his hand along Hutch’s neck and Kurt sighs, walking closer.

“Pa said we’re not supposed to go to town.”

“Burt also said we’re not supposed to trust people with the secret,” Finn mumbles resentfully. Kurt pinches the bridge of his nose. He understands why Finn is upset. They all remember what happened the last time they thought they could trust someone, and Kurt knows that Finn’s never recovered from it.

“Finn, you aren’t thinking. It’s dangerous and you know it.”

But Finn swings up into the saddle. Kurt takes a few brisk steps forward and closes his hands around the bridle, staring up at Finn.

“What does it matter anymore? We have a stranger in our house anyways. I just need some time to think.” He yanks on the reins but Kurt doesn’t release them. “This is your fault, you know.”

Kurt bristles, standing up straight and the knuckles of his clenched hand turning white.

“My fault?”

“You’re the reason he’s here, Kurt. He saw  _you_  in the woods and now he knows about us. What were you even doing at the spring?” Finn stares at him, his face a mix of confusion and accusation. Kurt fidgets under the gaze; he doesn’t have an answer, not really. He takes walks in the woods and sometimes he ends up there, fingers tracing the  _H_  that his pa carved all those years ago and remembering when his entire life changed.

“It’s not important—”

“The hell it’s not, Kurt. You can say what you want about that boy, say what you want about you, but he’s here because of you.”

The idea that all of this could be Kurt’s fault sits ill in his stomach. Is it his fault? Is he really responsible for how much danger his family is now possibly in? He swallows, his throat suddenly dry and his hand going lax enough for Finn to draw the horse away. But he doesn’t ride off, his face turned out towards the lake before he’s looking at Kurt again.

“He’s not like you, Kurt.”

Kurt draws in a sharp breath, looking at Finn in surprise.

“I see the way you look at him.”

Kurt looks away then, his blush hidden by the night’s darkness, but no less hot and shaming against the skin of his cheeks. He doesn’t mean to look, knows that he’s not supposed to, but he can’t help himself.

Blaine looks back.

Is it really so extreme to think that maybe Blaine is like him?

“You know what’ll happen. And you’re a fool if you think it’ll be any different.” Finn’s words are followed by the sudden sound of hooves galloping away. Kurt doesn’t turn to look and knows he wouldn’t be able to see very much if he did. The night is heavy out here in the woods and the darkness of the forest swallows up the world around them.

He stands there in the shadow of the treelooking up at the tiny Eiffel Tower Carole had hung not a week ago. Kurt pushes it with his finger and watches it twist on its piece of string and sighs. He knows he’s being wishful—Blaine is like every other boy in town and just because he has pretty eyes doesn’t mean he’s anything like Kurt.

And if he is—if Kurt dares let himself think that—what then? Finn is right. It won’t be any different and Kurt will live forever with a broken heart.

When he turns to go back inside, Blaine is there, standing in the doorway and watching the fireflies that flit around above the porch. He catches Kurt’s stare and shrinks back a bit, looking like a cornered forest animal.

_We kidnapped him. What else do I expect?_

“Is...” Blaine’s voice fails as Kurt pauses a few feet away from him. He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it from whatever style it held at the beginning of the day. “I didn’t mean to upset your brother. I wanted to apologize.”

Kurt shakes his head, letting out a long, controlled breath.

“You don’t need to apologize, he just...” Kurt waves his hand, dismissing the thought, but Blaine doesn’t look appeased at all. “He’s fine. You didn’t do anything.”

Blaine nods, eyebrows drawn tight together, and Kurt feels like Blaine won’t lose that worried expression for a long time.

“Are you hungry now?” Kurt asks, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, and Blaine blushes, looking away again. “Come on. There’s plenty of stew left and no more storming out to interrupt us.” He shoos Blaine back into the house and he looks back at Kurt and smiles. It’s still the smile of someone who’s scared and alone, and Kurt feels a pull of guilt inside of him.

He knows what those things feel like.

So he does what he can and smiles back, because that’s all he  _can_  do, and then Blaine’s smile grows just that much bigger. Kurt can’t stop the way his own smile grows as a result, and it should be disconcerting how quickly the guilt turns into a swoop.

It isn’t until Blaine has turned away completely and Kurt is left in the doorway, waiting for his heart to settle, that he realizes how much trouble he’s in.


	4. Chapter 4

Grace Anderson is a very busy woman.

Her days are booked through weeks in advance, social engagements arranged into every spare second of her time. She is a natural born hostess and was bred for the high society she now unequivocally dominates. There are people scrambling for her favor and who spend weeks crippled with anticipation over whether or not they’ll be invited to the next Anderson garden party. She possesses no small amount of power among the town, especially for a woman, and it is not a position she takes lightly. It takes work to get to the top and Grace Anderson definitely clawed her way up there.

And she took a chance on her choice of husband. No one expects much of a man whose father owns a simple building company, but Grace’s mother had always had a keen eye for favorable possibilities. She’d never climbed much higher than middle class herself, but she always wanted what was best for her daughter. Lima, Ohio might not have been New York or even Columbus, but it was a town and the majority of it ate out of the palm of her hand.

She had never questioned the way she chose to raise Blaine. There were times, of course, when she wished that maybe she’d had a daughter instead, but there was nothing stopping her from making sure Blaine had the best future possible. Was it so wrong for a mother to want what was best for her son? Couldn’t he understand that, in the end, she was simply trying to secure his best future?

She knows that she has a hard time listening and that her ways are set in stone, but Blaine had never seemed truly unhappy before.

That summer’s day was the first time in a long time that Grace Anderson cleared her social calendar. She pulled a chair up to the window and sat there all day, willing her son to walk back through the gates and into her arms. Her  _son_ , her  _child_ , her darling baby boy, and no matter how hard she had been fighting for his future, now there is a chance that Blaine might not have a future at all.

She takes her tea there by the window, and her supper, and every time a servant comes into the parlor, she looks at them expectantly, just to see them shake their head or ask if they can get her anything.

 _My son. Please bring Blaine home to me_.

Her husband comes and goes, his mouth always drawn in a deep frown. He stands by her at times, squeezes her shoulder, kisses her hair, before he puts on his hat and sets out again.

The sun sets and Blaine doesn’t come home, and Mrs. Anderson doesn’t move from her chair. She stares and stares out the window, eyes shifting from their trimmed lawns to the iron fence to the woods that seem to swallow children up like candy.

A thought hits her suddenly, and she draws in a sharp breath, standing quickly and moving towards the window. She presses her hand against the cool glass and stares at the gate. She remembers a few nights before, when she had watched Blaine from the very same spot as he ran about like a small child, trying to catch lightning bugs in a jar.

And then there was the man. The man in the strange, yellow suit.

“...it’s him,” she says suddenly, her eyes widening. “It has to be him.” There are no other answers she can think of. “Michael!”

 

 

Michael Anderson is a very busy man.

He grew up in a middle class family, with a strict father, a loving mother, and an older brother who was set to inherit everything. Michael knew that the business his father had built from the ground up would never be his, but he did what he could for his family, even if it meant being a shop boy at times.

But then Michael’s brother died of influenza and everything changed.

He was a smart man, even if he’d only had a basic education, and he thought of ways to grow his father’s company in ways the elder Anderson had never considered. His ingenuity and knack for business made the company flourish, so it was no surprise that when he asked for Miss Grace Miller’s hand, he was happily obliged.

They never could have predicted the man he would become or the success he would garner. His father’s company spread for miles and out of it popped Lima, Ohio; a small settlement that Michael Anderson made into something more.

He is hardly bothered with their social standing and indeed cares more about his latest land acquirements, and his routine gatherings with his colleagues around a box of cigars and a perfectly aged bottle of scotch. No, everything social was left to his wife, and Michael Anderson trusted her with their reputation wholly. He was a smart man, but he’d married an even smarter woman.

Michael Anderson might say that he regrets how much his business has taken priority over his family. He had worked side by side with his own father for years and yet Michael barely recognizes his son when he looks up long enough from the paper to properly see him. He’s grown up seemingly in a blink, and suddenly there’s talk of marriage and schooling, and Michael Anderson has never taught his son a single thing about the family business.

When Blaine had been born, Michael had breathed a sigh of relief—a son meant that he had an heir to his legacy, someone to take over for him someday and keep all of his hard work alive. But he had a business to run and a new family to support, and those were the important things in life. A man has to provide for his family and make them as comfortable as possible, after all, and that’s what Michael always told himself he was striving towards.

This summer’s day is the first time Michael Anderson doesn’t coop himself up in his office, a building located on the far side of town and away from his wife and son. He spends hours combing the woods and finding not even the indent of a footstep, returning when the sun gets too hot and his legs go stiff from walking. His wife stays at the window like a specter, not once moving and never asking any questions. Michael never has any news to report.

Michael had never seen Blaine’s first steps. If asked, he would not be able to recall Blaine’s first words or even the first time he had said “Papa.” In fact, Michael Anderson does not know his own son’s favorite color, which type of cufflinks he prefers, who he is courting, which young men he is friends with, or anything about his son other than the fact that he has one.

So, he searches harder and regrets every mistake he’s made in the last seventeen years.

And when his wife says, “Blaine’s been kidnapped, I know he has, I know the man that did it,” Michael listens to her and goes to the sheriff’s station for the fifth time that day.

 

 

Lima isn’t the sort of town that sees a lot of action, crime-related or otherwise. As a result, Lima’s local sheriff, Robert Pierce, is a kind, docile sort of man. He has a lovely wife, and a lovely daughter, and he’s never had to fire his gun (except a few times when the rabbits got too close to his wife’s vegetable garden).

So, when the Andersons’ only son goes missing, the whole town is in an uproar. People don’t go missing in Lima, at least not without proper notice. But that’s exactly what’s happened and Sheriff Pierce finds himself at a loss for what to do. For the first time in his career, he feels unsure of his position and completely incompetent.

Every time Mr. Anderson enters the station, Sheriff Pierce feels as if he’s letting down his town.

“Mr. Anderson, we have done everything we can, I don’t know what you expect me to do—”

“Your  _job_ , Bob! My son is out there somewhere, he’s missing!” Michael Anderson slams his hand down on the Sheriff’s desk and he jolts, sighing heavily and rubbing at his brow.

“We’ve wired descriptions to every town in Ohio, Michael. If Blaine goes anywhere, we’ll find him. We  _will_  find your son.” Robert has to believe it, after all, even if there are no leads or straws to grasp.

Michael is silent, staring down at the desk, eyebrows furrowed. Robert can’t imagine what the man and his wife must be going through; if anything ever happened to his Brittany, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

“My wife thinks Blaine was taken by someone,” Michael confesses, finally looking up. As rare as running away is, a kidnapping is absolutely unheard of. Robert nearly upsets his coffee in surprise, gaping at Mr. Anderson.

“Now, Mr. Anderson—”

“She’s insistent, Bob. I’ve never seen Grace this way, she... There was a strange man at our house the other night, speaking to Blaine. She didn’t think anything of it then, never even got a name, just that he was wearing a strange suit—”

“Mr. Anderson—”

“You need to find him, Bob,  _please_ , he has my son—”

“ _Michael_.” The Sheriff stands, setting his hands on the other man’s shoulders. “Calm down. You can’t just go accusing innocent people of such things.” Robert stands straighter, settling into the position his title dictates. “Now, Mrs. Anderson knows this based on what exactly?”

Michael hesitates and then sighs.

“Her instincts, but—”

“Mr. Anderson, as much as I respect you and your wife, her instincts aren’t enough to arrest someone on. I understand that you’re worried, but you just have to be patient. We’ll find him.”

“Please, just... Just bring him in! Put my wife’s worry to rest, if nothing else. He was wearing a yellow suit and—”

A door down the hall opens, drawing both of their attentions, as the Deputy Sheriff, Mr. Schuester, and a man in a yellow suit step out from one of the inner rooms. Michael stands tall, eyes widening, at a loss for words as he stares at man his wife described approaching him.

“Mr. Anderson,” Sheriff Pierce says from behind him, walking around the desk to stand beside him. “I believe this is the man you were talking about?” Michael just nods.

“Sebastian Smythe, sir.” The stranger holds out his hand and Michael takes it on principle, his breeding winning out over his suspicions. “I heard your son is missing.”

“Kidnapped,” Michael corrects. “My son was kidnapped.”

“Mr. Anderson, we don’t know that,” the Sheriff sighs. He turns to Sebastian, frowning. “From what I can tell, it’s a runaway—”

“My son did  _not_  run away, Bob.” Michael sends him an icy glare and the Sheriff just shakes his head. “And as fascinating as your hypotheses about where my son is are, it’s not doing any good finding him. What I want to know is if this man has anything to do with it.” Michael turns back to Sebastian, eyes cold.

He’s a stranger; Michael Anderson knows every single resident of Lima and has never seen this man before in his life. Except it seems silly to call him a man; he’s but a boy, really. He couldn’t be much older than Blaine himself.

“I met your son, Mr. Anderson,” Sebastian replies smoothly, straightening the fall of his tie. “But I’ve come to Lima looking for someone myself. I was just asking the Deputy here, but the name doesn’t ring any bells—your son did mention you, though, that you could help me?”

Mr. Anderson sighs heavily; his son is missing and a boy is trying to wheedle information out of him.

“Hummel, is the last name.” Sebastian works to twist his hat in his hands and grins. “Long lost relatives, you see.”

“No.” Michael feels quite tired then, leaning back against the Sheriff’s desk. “No, that name isn’t familiar.”

Sebastian frowns for just a moment before shaking his head.

“Of course not.” He dips his head. “I best be going then, but before I do.” He turns to Mr. Anderson, his grin confident. “I’m in the business of finding things, Mr. Anderson. Those woods stretch for miles, but if your son is in there, I’ll find him.” He sets his hat on his head, tips it respectfully, and departs with an, “Evening, gentlemen.”

The three of them watch him go silently, and when the door is closed, Michael turns back to Robert Pierce and claps a hand against his shoulder.

“Find out what happened to him, Bob. Please. You have to  _find_  him. He’s our only child.”

 

 

As the night grows later, candles are blown out, lamps are dimmed to preserve oil, and curtains are drawn over windows. Blaine recognizes the telltale signs of a household preparing for bed, except he can’t excuse himself from the parlor and retreat to his own room. This isn’t his house and there is no room or bed for him, leaving him standing awkwardly in the center of the room as the Hummels move like clockwork around the cabin.

He wonders where they’ll tell him to sleep. They haven’t treated him badly thus far, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be curled up on the ground tonight without the normal comforts of a quilt and pillow. He scuffs his foot against the wood and frowns as it occurs to him that he doesn’t have any sort of nightclothes. Do they expect him to sleep in his trousers and waistcoat?

“Oh, Mr. Anderson!” Carole turns to look at him as if she’d completely forgotten he was there in the wake of her evening chores. “We need to set up some place for you to sleep, don’t we?” She tsks to herself, walking over to a trunk and throwing it open to reveal a large store of quilts.

“I can do it, Carole.”

Kurt walks towards the chest and takes the quilts out of Carole’s arms. He’s dressed down in nightclothes now, and Blaine feels a rush of embarrassment at seeing him. Which is only natural, seeing as Blaine has never seen anyone but his own reflection in such garments.

“Oh, it’s all right, Kurt, I don’t mind. That’s what a mother does.”

Blaine tries to remember the last time his mother even came into his bedroom to say goodnight and fails.

“You’ve had a long day, and so has Pa. Really. I can do this.” Kurt’s voice goes softer and a look passes between him and Carole before she’s nodding slowly.

“All right, then.” Carole turns her attention to Blaine. “If you need something in the middle of the night, Burt and me are right through that door there.” She points to one of the thick doors along the back walls. “I’ll see you boys in the morning.” She kisses Kurt on the cheek and he ducks his head, as if the motherly affection is embarrassing when there’s company present, although Blaine only finds the gesture sweet.

“Goodnight,” she says as she makes her way to join her husband in their bedroom.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Hummel,” Blaine says in return and sees Kurt freeze the same way he had over supper, when Blaine had addressed Carole properly for the first time.

“Why do you do that?” He asks in the silence that follows the  _thud_  of Carole closing the door. Kurt turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Do what?” Kurt weaves towards one of the corners of the room, where a padded bench is pushed up against the wall. Blaine wonders if that’s to be his bed and already dreads how uncomfortable it will most likely be.

“When I call your mother Mrs. Hummel, you—that!” Because Kurt’s back had gone rigid at the formality again. He doesn’t move for a long moment and when he does, it’s only to climb up on the bench and begin to hang one of the quilts from the ceiling. Blaine notices hooks for the first time and wonders how many other people they’ve captured and kept in that corner.

Kurt continues not to speak and Blaine turns the question over and over in his head; he doesn’t understand. He didn’t say anything rude, as far as he’s aware, although perhaps his tone was a bit too demanding. Nothing was all that offensive, unless perhaps it’s a tic that Kurt was unaware of before.

Resigned, Blaine picks up the rest of the quilts and moves quietly to join Kurt in the corner. If Kurt realizes he’s there, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and even if Kurt is the reason Blaine is there,Blaine still feels guilty about upsetting him.

“I apologize,” he mumbles quietly, and Kurt looks down at him from his perch on the table. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Kurt still doesn’t speak, taking another quilt from Blaine’s arms and working to hang it up as well. It’s making a nice little square, tucked in the corner of the main room, that will at least give Blaine the illusion of privacy. It’s considerate of them, but then, they really have been nothing but hospitable since he arrived.

“Carole isn’t my mother,” Kurt says, stepping down from the table. He pushes the quilts aside and gestures Blaine in, so Blaine goes. He sits on the bench—softer than he’d anticipated—and looks at Kurt, who stands at the gap in the quilts and his fingers twist at the hand sewn edges. “My mother died when I was very young. Carole was a widow when my father married her—Finn and I aren’t even brothers.” He looks from the faded patterns of the quilt to meet Blaine’s eyes. “We don’t have a lot of visitors. I haven’t heard the name Mrs. Hummel in a long, long while.”

It explains a lot, really. It explains why Kurt calls Carole by her name, and Finn calls Burt by his. It explains how none of them really look alike the way a family should. But it only increases the guilt Blaine has already been feeling.

“How long has it been?” Blaine asks quietly, watching as Kurt’s eyes become distant and wistful.

“She died when I was eight.”

Not too long, then, if Kurt is around Blaine’s age. He wonders briefly why Kurt had said very young if he’d been eight at the time, but Blaine supposes any age is too young to lose one’s mother.

“I’m sorry.” Blaine stares at Kurt earnestly. “I never meant—”

“I know.” Kurt smiles, small and tight. “It’s okay. You were raised that way.”

He was. But the idea of dredging up the memory of Kurt’s dead mother just to maintain his manners and right to call himself a gentleman seems untoward.

“That may be, but it would speak poorly of my character if I let my manners interfere with common human courtesy.” Blaine clasps his hands together. “Just because I was raised a certain way doesn’t mean that way of life defines me.” It comes out softly, words that have been fluttering inside Blaine for years but that he’s never had the chance to voice. He wonders what makes him choose then and now—what makes him choose Kurt. Maybe it’s the fact that, when he looks at Kurt, there’s a quiet sort of understanding there.

Kurt doesn’t say anything further, instead picking up the quilts again and shooing Blaine from the bench to the chair so he can set up the bed properly.

“You should have enough privacy in here,” Kurt says conversationally. He makes the bed neatly, despite the fact that Blaine will be sleeping in it soon afterwards, and Blaine finds himself watching Kurt’s hands as they work. “Unless you’re in the habit of talking to yourself. I sleep right above you.”

Blaine glances at the boards above his head and wonders what sort of rooms they could even manage up there. Kurt finishes and then turns, hands clasped in front of him and the atmosphere around them suddenly awkward and tense.

“Do you—”

Blaine is startled by how roughly Kurt’s voice comes out, but Kurt coughs, his face flushing in embarrassment.

“Do you need help getting... Getting undressed?” Kurt finally manages, and this time Blaine blushes. He supposes he can sleep in his undershirt and breeches if he must, but it’s not as if he has a corset that needs to be unlaced. Blaine wonders if Kurt is offering because he thinks Blaine is used to being assisted in preparing for bed (which he is), but he shakes his head.

“I think I can manage, but thank you.”

Kurt just nods stiffly and glances away shyly, leaving Blaine to wonder how Kurt could go from so cold and detached in the forest to acting like  _this_.

“Well then.” Kurt turns to leave and gives a nod of his head. “Goodnight, Mr. Anderson.”

“Blaine.” He says it too quickly and bites his lip, staring at Kurt’s back as he stills. He turns to look at Blaine over his shoulder, blinking curiously. Blaine licks his lips, mouth suddenly feeling oddly dry. “Please call me Blaine.”

When Kurt smiles this time, it’s different. This smile stretches his lips and brightens his face; the corners of his eyes crinkle and Blaine thinks he might see a dimple, but the light is too dim to know for sure. There’s a strange tightness in his chest at the same time as he appears to lose the ability to breathe. He rubs at his chest, as if his fingers can soothe the pain away, and Kurt’s smile flickers and disappears.

“Are you all right?”

Blaine smiles tightly and nods.

“I’m fine.”

Kurt doesn’t look convinced, but he simply shakes his head and turns to slip through the gap in the quilts. Blaine takes a deep breath as soon as Kurt’s out of sight, running a hand through his completely disheveled hair and wondering what in the world just happened to him.

“Oh!”

Blaine looks up to see Kurt’s head come into view again.

“Goodnight, Blaine.”

There’s that smile again and Blaine’s hand tightens into the fabric of his dress shirt right above his heart.

“Goodnight,” Blaine whispers, and then Kurt is gone again. He slumps onto his makeshift bed, softer now that it’s been piled with thick quilts, and stares at his hands.

Is something wrong with him? Is he becoming ill? Perhaps there was something in the food and they’ve poisoned him.

No... No. Blaine might not know what these people want or what they plan to do with him, but he has been shown too much kindness this day to think they have any malicious intentions.

The ceiling above him creaks and Blaine can see a flicker of movement through the cracks. For a moment, he feels uncomfortable at the thought of undressing, but then pushes it aside. It’s not as if Kurt can see him, so there really is no reason for him to be quite so suspicious.

“I just need to sleep,” he mutters to himself, unbuttoning his waistcoat. There’s a few knocks on the ceiling above him and he looks up, but there’s nothing to see.

“I wasn’t lying about the talking. I  _can_  hear you,” Kurt’s disembodied voice says through the planks of wood, and Blaine lets out a startled laugh. He claps a hand over his mouth, unused to being so unbridled. Blaine never gets to just laugh, not anymore. Laughter is done politely and quietly. One does not just let themselves laugh without restraint.

Blaine had forgotten how good laughing could feel.

He’s still smiling as he continues undressing, and it isn’t until he’s turned off his lamp and is tucked beneath the quilts that he hears Kurt speak again—softly, like he’s telling a secret.

“You have a lovely laugh.”


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Blaine notices when he wakes up is how stiff his back is. It’s a sharp reminder of where he is—not in his bed, or his room, or his house, but curled up beneath old quilts in a stranger’s home. He feels sore and tired and cold, despite the two quilts piled on top of him. He wants nothing more than to let himself fall back asleep and out of this reality—Blaine is never allowed to sleep in and he might as well take advantage of the opportunity.

That’s when he realizes what woke him in the first place; someone is gently shaking his arm and whispering his name.

“Blaine.”

It’s Kurt. Blaine groans and pulls the quilts over his face. It’s hardly light out which means it can’t be much later than dawn and the house is silent except for Kurt’s whispers.

“Blaine Anderson, are you awake?”

The quilt is pulled down until the morning light is hitting Blaine’s eyelids, and he squints on instinct.

“No.” He tries to tug the fabric back over his face, but Kurt keeps his hold on it.

“Liar.”

Blaine reluctantly opens one of his eyes and does his best to glare at Kurt, but from the unimpressed and amused smile Kurt gives him in return, he’s pretty sure it fails.

“It’s not enough to kidnap me, you also have to wake me up with the dawn?” Blaine sighs in resignation, rubbing at his sleep-encrusted eyes when it’s clear that Kurt isn’t going to be leaving him alone. Kurt’s eyes dim slightly and he pulls away, arms crossing over his chest.

“I wanted to take you somewhere,” he admits quietly, and  _this_  catches Blaine’s attention. Take him somewhere? As in  _leave?_  He sits up, wincing at the way his back protests and moving to touch his hair. The style it had been worked into the previous morning (was it really only yesterday?) is gone completely, and Blaine tries not to grimace when he sees Kurt take notice of it. He’s sure he looks like some sort of bedraggled animal but, luckily, Kurt chooses not to comment.

Blaine means to ask, “That somewhere can’t wait until the afternoon?” but says, “You’re letting me leave?” instead.

Kurt’s eyes widen in surprise and then his entire expression softens. It occurs to Blaine then how Kurt is lower in his vision than he should be and is quick to realize it’s because Kurt is kneeling on the ground beside Blaine’s makeshift bed. Kurt is careful to meet his eyes and hold them.

“You’re not a prisoner, Blaine,” Kurt says, very evenly. Blaine’s eyebrows furrow instantly, and he opens his mouth to protest, but Kurt holds up a hand to stop him. “We have our reasons for not letting you go home, but that doesn’t mean we plan to chain you to the house.”

So, he has freedom? Just not  _enough_  freedom.

_We need to be able to trust you before we can let you go._

Blaine just doesn’t understand why.

“Come on,” Kurt whispers, unfolding gracefully until he’s standing tall beside Blaine. “You should, um... Get dressed.” Kurt throws a look to where Blaine’s clothes are folded on the chair and Blaine instinctively clutches the quilts tighter around his body, his face heating with embarrassment. Kurt doesn’t say anything more; he dips his head and backs out of Blaine’s “room,” presumably waiting in the main room until Blaine is decent. 

But Blaine sits there a moment longer, hand pressed to his chest, wondering why his heart is beating so fast all of a sudden.

 

 

Mr. Anderson closes Anderson & Son’s Building Co. down for the day, a part of him wondering whether or not one day will turn into many. He’s hopeful, for his wife and his son’s sake, that his doors will be closed and locked for just the single day. 

Sheriff Pierce and Deputy Schuester, along with many of the local men and other law enforcement from several neighboring towns, are gathered on the Anderson’s pristine front lawn. Mrs. Anderson, face drawn and hair unstyled, watches from the porch as her husband sets a hat on his head and congregates with the men. Dogs bark and pull on leashes, filling the morning with a cacophony of sound.

“These woods go for miles,” Mr. Anderson informs them as he unfurls a map. “But we’re going to search every inch of them until my son is found. Do you understand me?” He looks sternly at the men and they nod.

“Good.” He pockets the map and adjusts his jacket before giving a nod to the Sheriff.

“All right, boys! Let’s go!” Sheriff Pierce hollers, and the search is on.

 

 

The woods are quiet this early in the morning. Dew clings to the grass and paints streaks against Blaine’s loafers ( _dress_  loafers, certainly not made for this sort of walking) as they walk, winding slowly through trees; the branches hang heavy above them, as if the forest itself is asleep. Every so often, Blaine hears the far off call of birdsong, but the noise is gone before he can think about it too much.

Wildflowers and mushrooms grow in colorful patches around the bases of trees, large roots winding across the forest floor in a jumbled mess that catches Blaine’s feet and makes him stumble more than once. Water droplets slip from the leaves in the canopy above them, sprinkling the ground, their hair, and on one occasion Blaine’s face, like rainfall. A breeze whistles through the treetops, creating a song all its own and waking up the world around them. The sun tries to break through the canopy, but instead its sunlight filters through the leaves, casting the woods in a faint green glow.

Blaine walks with his head twisting almost constantly, mouth parted in awe as if he’s seeing the forest for the first time. It had only been yesterday, but Blaine can’t remember it being quite like this. He doesn’t know if it’s how low the sun hangs in the sky, or the way his own skin looks faerie-like in the tinted light, or the way Kurt had reached back to take his hand when he tripped a few minutes ago, and hasn’t yet let go.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Blaine asks, voice hushed, as Kurt helps him over a large log half buried in the forest floor and thriving with moss; Blaine feels like he’s in a fairy tale.

“I didn’t say?”

Blaine shakes his head and they keep walking, beginning to climb up a small incline. It’s not exactly dangerous, yet Kurt still walks slowly, the ground sometimes sliding away from beneath his feet, so Blaine imitates him.

“Have you ever seen the Eiffel Tower?”

Blaine shakes his head again, eyebrows pinched together—he hardly knows how the Eiffel Tower has anything to do with a forest in the middle of Ohio, but he doesn’t mention it.

“No,” he says instead, following Kurt over an awkwardly situated boulder. “I’ve always wanted to, though.” Traveling is something that Blaine has always dreamed of, in the darkness of his bedroom at night, or in the shade of the trees he would lie under during his morning escapes. It had always been a whisper of a possibility, something that Blaine never thought he’d have. Not with the life his parents want for him.

“I have,” Kurt says, voice slightly wistful, like he misses it (and Blaine wonders why he would ever come back to Ohio if he’d been to someplace as wonderful and exciting as Paris). The inclines they’re encountering now are beginning to get steeper, littered with outcroppings of rock. Blaine’s breath starts to become labored as they climb and he stares in wonder at Kurt, who moves and climbs gracefully and without any sign of tiring.

“Wait.” Blaine stops to catch his breath and Kurt is pulled to a stop by their joined hands.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired already,” Kurt teases, although there’s nothing that indicates he’s actually surprised at Blaine’s exhaustion.

“Excuse me for not hiking through the woods on a daily basis,” Blaine mumbles to himself, glaring up at Kurt. “And you never answered my question.”

Kurt gives a tug on Blaine’s hand, insisting they go on, and then their hands slip apart as they both focus on keeping their balance. The incline only seems to become steeper, and Blaine wishes Kurt had thought to mention this from the get-go; he’d really much rather be sleeping.

“What question is that?”

Blaine saves his breath until he reaches the top and is surprised at the rock face he sees before him. There’s nothing but flat stone in front of them, and he takes a few steps forward, pressing the palm of his hand to its cool surface.

“Where we’re going.” Blaine looks back at Kurt over his shoulder and Kurt smiles minutely.

“The Eiffel Tower, of course.” He jerks his head to the side and continues walking. Blaine sighs in frustration at being kept in the dark.

“We’re in the middle of Ohio, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I don’t think I ever forget that.”

They’ve stopped now. The rocks before them have turned from a smooth face to a jumble of stones and ledges. Blaine eyes it warily but then notices the way Kurt is shifting back and forth on his feet, as if he’s suddenly nervous.

“Please don’t tell me the Eiffel Tower is at the top.” Even looking up, Blaine can’t see where the rocks end. The top disappears into the treetops.

“No.” Kurt glances away and he seems almost  _shy_ , the way he won’t look Blaine in the eye. It’s mysteriously endearing and it makes Blaine smile. “This... Is  _my_  Eiffel Tower.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in and, when they do, Blaine simply stares at Kurt and how red his face has turned.

“It’s your...?”

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Kurt says quickly, his voice affronted and defensive. “But when...” He stops and looks up to meet Blaine’s eyes. “When I feel trapped, I come here.”

Blaine blinks slowly at him, trying to understand, but then Kurt is turning around, moving towards the rocks and beginning to climb up them.

“You don’t honestly expect me to climb that!” Blaine cries, aghast. He could fall and break his neck! Kurt regards him, head cocked at an angle.

“Do you know how many stairs there are to the top of the Eiffel Tower?”

“No,” Blaine growls in annoyance. He’s never been to France and he hardly knows what that has to do with him risking his life.

“Sixteen hundred and fifty two,” Kurt answers. “I know, because I climbed all the way up and counted every one.”

Blaine can’t imagine that. He can hardly remember how many stairs lead to the second floor of his own house and tries to imagine himself climbing and counting anything like sixteen hundred and fifty two steps.

“That’s what elevators are for,” Blaine states, lifting his chin slightly, and Kurt smiles sadly at him.

“And what’s memorable about taking an elevator?”

Blaine pauses, mouth opening and closing without providing any sort of answer. It’s still Paris, it’s still the Eiffel Tower, of  _course_  it would be memorable. Before he can articulate his rebuttal, Kurt is holding out his hand again.

“Come on.”

Blaine isn’t sure what prompts him to take it, but he does.

 

 

The forest is loud with the sounds of the search.

They’re vast, and, even with a group as large as theirs, it takes hours to move through even a small part of it. They sweep around every tree, looking for  _something_. But there are barely any deer tracks, much less signs of where Blaine might have gone.

Occasionally, the dogs will bark and the search party will all rush towards a sound, but whatever the dogs smell or see turns out to be nothing. It feels like a wild goose chase, and Mr. Anderson begins to feel like he’s turning in circles rather than making any real progress. The woods that fall on his property have always been daunting to him; each year, he pushes the treeline back with more houses and shops and roads, and yet he never seems to make a dent in their incredible mass.

Every tree looks the same, and the forest begins to feel like a maze as they walk and search and call for Blaine. They cover what feels like miles, get turned around frequently, and men slowly leave the party—men with businesses to run and families to support, and Mr. Anderson cannot pay them all a good day’s wages to search for him.

“Mr. Anderson! Boys! Over here!” Deputy Schuester calls and they hurry over. The dogs bark wildly and Mr. Anderson tries not to get his hopes up once again. He isn’t interested in finding another patch of mushrooms or a trail that appears to circle a copse of trees and then turn back on itself.

But when they all clamber to meet the Deputy over loose leaves and soft forest ground, he’s standing with his palm open and something glinting within it. Mr. Anderson approaches curiously, eyebrows furrowed as he inspects the tiny objects.

His breath catches as he recognizes them: cufflinks. Cufflinks that match a pair in one of his dresser drawers back at home. The cufflinks Blaine had been wearing the afternoon prior, when he’d fled the house. It’s not much, not even enough for the dogs to get a scent off of, but it’s something.

It’s something.

 

 

Blaine doesn’t fall to his death, but he might die from the sheer exertion of the climb. His feet ache and he’s sweating in the tight confines of his shirt and why did he think wearing his vest would be a good idea? Kurt is surprisingly patient with him and with every pause they take in the ascent, he tells Blaine a little about Paris. He talks about the people, the buildings, the smells, and the colors. He paints pictures of the city at night and in the early morning, and the way the street lamps shine in the Seine.

It must be afternoon by the time they reach the top, and only Blaine’s dignity keeps him from flopping onto his back and begging for death. Even Kurt seems tired, falling to the ground and stretching out his legs and arms. The breeze is cool and a relief to Blaine’s overheated skin, and he wishes Kurt had brought water, at least. He closes his eyes against the brightness of the sun overhead and tries not to think about climbing back down.

“I have to admit,” Kurt says, and Blaine wonders how he has breath left to waste on words. “Climbing the steps of the actual Eiffel Tower is much easier than that.”

Blaine scoffs a laugh and opens his eyes, looking over at Kurt.

“I would still take the elevator. I wish your Eiffel Tower had an elevator,” he groans, wishing he could take off his shoes and soothe the aches in his feet.

“I wouldn’t let you,” Kurt muses. “If we ever go to Paris together, I’ll make you climb all the way to the top. All sixteen hundred and fifty two steps.”

The scenario hangs heavy in the air and Blaine stares over at Kurt. He tries to imagine Paris from the descriptions Kurt had given him, but it’s like remembering a painting. It’s an image, and no matter how vivid, it is not the same as being there. He wonders if Paris with Kurt would be like living in the painting and seeing everything with the same passion Kurt had described it.

“I think after this, I could do anything,” Blaine retorts and Kurt flashes him a smile, bright and blinding, and Blaine’s chest twists again. The feeling is beginning to become familiar and he doesn’t know how he feels about it.

“Good.” Kurt bounds to his feet and Blaine looks at the way he’s outlined by the vibrant blue of the sky. “But we’re not done yet.”

Blaine groans.

“There are no more rocks to climb. We reached the  _top_ ,” he whines tiredly.

“We did, but there’s something I want you to see.” Kurt holds out his hand and Blaine takes it. “Now close your eyes.”

Blaine looks at Kurt as if he’s crazy.

“Is this the part where you push me to my death?” He asks as Kurt hauls him to his feet, who looks at Blaine as if the suggestion horrifies him.

“Of course not.” Kurt sounds absolutely insulted by the idea. “Trust me.”

 _Unlikely_. But Blaine sighs and closes his eyes. Kurt moves around him based on the sound of his boots against the rock. He settles his hands on Blaine’s shoulders and he’s standing so close that Blaine can feel Kurt’s body heat against his back. The proximity makes his heart speed up again and he swallows, cursing the climb for his suddenly dry mouth. Kurt turns him and then his voice is close, directing him to take five short steps forward. His hands tighten their grip on Blaine at four and Kurt says, “Stop. Those were not short steps.” And Blaine rolls his eyes behind his lids, mouth open to retort when Kurt instructs him to open them.

So, he does, and feels his mouth drop open.

Blaine has read about the ocean and seen pictures and, right in that moment, he’s sure this is the closest thing he’ll ever see to it. In every direction, he can see a sprawling endless expanse of green—treetops, vibrant in their summer hue, and rippling like waves as the wind blows. It’s the most beautiful thing Blaine has ever seen and he can’t look away from it.

“It’s no Paris,” Kurt whispers, trying not to disturb the beauty of the moment. “But sometimes I think that this is more beautiful than any view I could get there.”

Blaine can’t agree or disagree. He hasn’t seen Paris or  _anything_  outside of Lima, but he knows that, so far in his lifetime, he has never seen anything quite like this.

It takes effort to turn and look at Kurt, and when Blaine does it feels like the words he’d been planning to say die immediately on his tongue. He has the feeling that he’s looking at something he isn’t supposed to be seeing; the mask that Kurt has been wearing, even in their quiet moment together the night before, appears to be gone at last.

Where, moments before, Blaine had thought it impossible to look away from the beauty all around him, he now feels as if nothing in the world could make him look away from Kurt.

He’s laid open and raw and vulnerable. His eyes are distant, someplace far away from Blaine, and full of such a deep rooted sadness that it makes Blaine ache for him. He wants to reach out, to help somehow, perhaps to pull away all the layers still hiding Kurt away, to find out where a look like that comes from.

 _When I feel trapped, I come here_.

Kurt’s eyes flick in his direction and the mask is instantly back in place, the sadness pulled back deep inside where Blaine can’t see it anymore. Blaine knows his mask is good, but he’s never seen one as thorough as the one Kurt appears to wear. He looks a little uncomfortable under Blaine’s gaze and looks away again. The green and blue of the forest seem to be reflected in Kurt’s pale eyes, but they stay calm and guarded now that Kurt’s aware that Blaine is watching him.

“Why did you come back?” Blaine asks. Kurt looks back, eyebrows raised. “If you had Paris... Why did you come back?”

He watches as Kurt chews his lip and then lets out a sigh.

“Let’s sit down.” Kurt lowers himself carefully to the ground, until his legs are hanging over the edge, dangling in the air high above the forest below. Blaine feels fear twist in his stomach and he doesn’t move. “Are you afraid of heights?” Kurt teases, looking up at him when he notices that Blaine has yet to sit down.

“ _No_ ,” Blaine bristles and he moves slowly, taking large, labored breaths, even while Kurt stares at him critically. “It’s the incredibly real possibility of plunging to my death, actually.” Blaine’s pace is apparently too slow for Kurt, because he grabs hold of Blaine’s arm and drags him the rest of the way down. Blaine’s feet catch against loose pieces of the edge and he doesn’t look down to watch them fall, breathing heavily with his eyes closed.

“Was that necessary?” Blaine snaps his head to the side and glares at Kurt, who rolls his eyes.

“I won’t let you fall.” Kurt meets his eyes and Blaine feels like he’s going to throw up his stomach, or his heart, even. “I promise.”

Blaine can see the exact moment Kurt realizes what he said, as his eyes widen a few moments later and he turns away, staring out again over the trees, his cheeks stained with color. Blaine tilts his head, wanting to ask about it, but Kurt interrupts him before he can even begin to voice his question.

“I haven’t just been to Paris.”

Blaine straightens up as his attention is piqued, his eyes trained to Kurt’s face as he listens. He doesn’t trace the slopes of his profile or admire the way his eyelashes catch the sunlight or how his lips stick together slightly every time he opens his mouth to talk. Blaine listens and absolutely doesn’t think about why he’s noticing these things—doesn’t  _understand_  why he’s noticing these things.

“I’ve been to New York. San Francisco. London. Vienna. Venice. Rome.” Kurt smiles softly and Blaine can see the dip of his dimple in his cheek. Blaine can’t imagine having been to so many places when he can’t even say he’s been out of Ohio, much less very far outside of Lima. He feels so small suddenly, so insignificant. He looks at Kurt, at his simple clothes and his old eyes, and wonders how Blaine could have everything he has and not even come close to being what Kurt is. He’s worldly, and he  _can’t_  be much older than Blaine, it shouldn’t even be possible for him to have traveled the world and yet Blaine has no doubt that he could paint pictures of every city—the same way he’d done for Paris.

“Kurt...” Kurt turns his head slightly, just enough to comfortably have Blaine in his eyeline. “How old are you?”

If Blaine hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t have seen the way something in Kurt’s eyes froze with fear for just the fraction of a moment. A silence passes that is too long and, once again, Blaine is left a loss, trying to understand the enigma that is Kurt Hummel.

Kurt turns away again, the tension in his shoulders relaxing the smallest amount.

“A hundred and four.”

Blaine immediately frowns, unamused, and when Kurt turns to look at him again, his eyes catch the sunlight in such a way that they seem to glitter.

“That isn’t funny.”

“Who said I was trying to be?” Kurt’s voice is quiet and serious and it makes a chill run up Blaine’s spine. Kurt looks back out over the forest again, smiles, and says, “Let’s just call it eighteen, shall we?”

So, not much older than Blaine at all.

“I’m seventeen,” he says, “but I’ll be eighteen soon.” Kurt hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t comment; maybe Blaine should have made a joke about being five hundred and twenty.

“Did you want me to answer your first question, like I was doing when you interrupted me with your second, or do you have other ones to ask?”

Blaine has many other ones. Blaine wants to ask Kurt  _everything_. He wants to know what New York is like. He wants to know why he’s never seen Kurt or his family before. He wants to know why he needs to be trusted, why Kurt’s family is so different than anything Blaine’s ever encountered before, why  _Kurt_  is so different than anyone Blaine has ever known, and why Blaine can’t seem to look at Kurt without his stomach going to knots.

But the thought of Kurt feeling trapped when he has the ability to leave, to get out, stops Blaine from asking. He shakes his head and Kurt nods, his legs swinging back and forth and sending pieces of stone skittering down the rockface.

“The world is a very big place, Blaine.”

Something trills through him at the way Kurt says his name.

“I want to see all of it someday,” Kurt continues, voice wistful. “I’m looking for something and, in all the places I’ve looked... I’ve only ever found it here.” He looks at Blaine then and Blaine’s heart skips a beat.

“What?” Blaine asks quietly.

“Acceptance.”

The word hits Blaine in a strange way and his eyes widen.

“Someplace I can be myself and not have to pretend to be someone else just for the sake of others.”

Blaine’s breathing suddenly feels shallow.

“And in the whole world, the only place I feel that way is in the middle of the woods in Ohio.” He smiles ruefully. “So, I travel, I see the world, but... I always come back.” Kurt considers Blaine for a moment and Blaine feels as if Kurt’s eyes are looking straight through him.

“But you still feel trapped?” Blaine asks around the sudden block in his throat. Kurt’s face turns sad and he nods.

“Nowhere’s perfect, at least... Not that I’ve found yet.” Kurt begins to play with his fingers in his lap, staring at all the different ways he can twist them together. “I’m not like everyone else, Blaine.”

“No,” Blaine agrees on a breath and Kurt looks at him in surprise. “You’re... You’re different.”

Kurt laughs suddenly, surprised, and his nose scrunches as he shakes his head.

“More than you know,” he says, but his smile is still sad and Blaine can practically see the secrets behind it. “What about you, Blaine?” Blaine blinks in surprise. “What are you looking for?”

“Nothing,” he says, too quickly, and Kurt doesn’t just swallow the lie—people always take the lie, it’s the easiest thing to do, but Kurt is staring at Blaine intently.

“You don’t take walks in the woods, Blaine,” Kurt states, plainly, and Blaine’s mouth flounders in shock. “You were looking for something yesterday, weren’t you?”

It sounds like such a simple question, like Blaine had misplaced a hat or a childhood toy somewhere amongst the trees. But he knows it’s so much more than that. The word  _acceptance_  aches in his chest like a wish he doesn’t dare acknowledge with words.

“My parents were sending me away.” Blaine looks out over the trees, feeling like the world is spread out beneath them, even though it’s only one forest. “I’ve... Never felt like enough for them.” He can understand now why Kurt stared out at the trees and the sky instead of looking at Blaine while he spoke; speaking to  _everything_  rather than just Kurt makes Blaine feel safe in a way he’s unfamiliar with. “To have them tell me as such...” Blaine laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “They wanted me to go to Dalton, to become  _refined_. To be buffed and polished until I’m just like my father.” His hands skim along the surface of the rock until his fingers touch on a smooth, round stone. He picks it up, holding it in his hand so tightly it hurts. “Until there isn’t any  _me_  left at all.”

He throws it and it feels like he’s done more than toss a single stone. It’s as if a boulder has been picked up off his chest, and he takes a big, grounding breath. He feels a touch to his hand and starts, head whipping to the side and vision filling with the blueness of Kurt’s eyes. It isn’t pity there, but  _empathy_. And of course Kurt understands.

They’re both looking for the same thing. Blaine just hadn’t fully understood that it’s what he’d been looking for until that moment.

Kurt settles his hand over Blaine’s and keeps it there as they sit in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt finally whispers and Blaine shrugs off the apology. “My family has always been the one place I’ve felt safe.” He doesn’t say that Blaine is lacking that, that Blaine has  _nowhere_ , but it doesn’t need to be said.

“They offered me another option.” Blaine snorts, completely undignified. “That I could marry. Become a husband. Apparently a wife would be just as good as boarding school at straightening me out.” Blaine shakes his head and sighs. “You can see why I chose the woods,” he smiles wryly and stares out at the forest again.

“Maybe I’ve read too many fairy tales, but I never saw marriage as something to be done to advance one’s place in society or as some sort of political tool.” His smile turns from sardonic to hopeful. “I always imagined marrying the person I fell in love with. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? Shouldn’t I marry someone I love?” The yearning in Blaine’s own voice surprises him and he stops himself from saying any more and making a fool of himself.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head and smiles at Kurt in a self-deprecating fashion. “I guess I’m just a silly romantic.”

“It’s not silly.”

Kurt looks so earnest as he says it, his hand squeezing around Blaine’s, and Blaine feels it again—the tightness in his chest, the twisting in his stomach, the way his heart seems to beat inside his head.

“Why is it so easy to talk to you?” Blaine blurts, voice laced with surprise and utter confusion. It shouldn’t be easy to talk to Kurt, Blaine shouldn’t trust Kurt, or Kurt’s family. They kidnapped him, are keeping him here, and yet...

And yet, Blaine has never felt as free as he does right in that moment.

Kurt’s face softens and he smiles.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Kurt says, and there’s a wonder there that Blaine can relate to. “Maybe it’s because I’m different?” Kurt ventures, his voice hopeful, and Blaine cocks his head to the side.

“You are,” Blaine says for the second time and Kurt squeezes his hand again. There’s something new in Kurt’s eyes as he looks at Blaine this time and it makes Blaine feel like he’s lost his breath.

“Maybe...” Kurt pauses and glances away shyly. “Maybe you’re different, too.”

And Blaine smiles, feeling a joy course through him that makes him want to laugh. So he does. Kurt starts, frowning, but it must be apparent that Blaine isn’t mocking him with his laughter. It’s pure, untempered joy.

Different is the best thing Blaine has ever been called.


	6. Chapter 6

Blaine Anderson is beginning to lose track of time.

Has he been there a day? A week? A month? It seems to Blaine that the Hummels live in a way the rest of the world had forgotten. They’re never in a hurry and always do things the slow way.

He helps Carole wash the laundry in the cold water of the stream, pressing away the stains with soap that Carole had made herself. He tends to the garden so that Carole can knit, sitting nearby and telling him fairy tales as he picks cherries for the pie Kurt wants to bake later. Blaine pits them and listens to Kurt hum and whistle as he rolls out dough and teaches Blaine how to lattice the top. He takes turns washing the dishes and sometimes he’s the one telling stories around the fire at night. When it rains and the roof leaks, Burt shows him how to fix it and claps him on the shoulder while wearing a proud grin. When his trousers tear, Kurt works skillfully with a needle and thread to mend them and tells Blaine how they make all of their own clothing.

Sometimes, Blaine watches. He watches as Burt smoothes wood into a new leg for the kitchen table or how Carole works steadily at the loom. He sees Finn’s smile go from untrustworthy to hesitant, changing slowly like a river cutting a new path through the landscape. He sits by Kurt in the candlelight as he carves into untouched wood, forever immortalizing the images of the forest that Blaine is beginning to see every day with his own eyes.

Kurt shows Blaine. He takes Blaine by the hand and they run, through creeks and trees and fields full of grasses as high as their waists. They startle deer and whistle to the mockingbirds, that same melody that will now and forever remind Blaine of Kurt. They laugh, more than Blaine has ever laughed before, and they talk beneath the watch of the trees, over kneading dough and breaking bread, until all the oil in Blaine’s lamp is spent and Burt scolds them for being wasteful. Even then, they whisper through the floorboards until one of them falls asleep.

There’s no set time when it happens, but slowly Blaine stops being  _Blaine Anderson_  and simply becomes himself. His mask cracks and falls to pieces around him as the Hummels and their lifestyle wrap around him like a cocoon of love and acceptance.

For the first time, Blaine feels accepted.

For the first time, Blaine feels free.

 

 

The waterfall is one of Blaine’s favorite places.

He knows the forest now; Kurt has shown him how to weave through the trees and read the land. He takes Blaine everywhere, over and over again, until Blaine is taking Kurt’s hand and pulling him to the Eiffel Tower, or the meadow of wildflowers, or the split tree they like to cradle themselves in until the sun dips low beneath the tree line.

But the waterfall is still one of his favorites—would be his favorite, except Blaine knows that spot will always belong to Kurt’s Eiffel Tower (which feels like it belongs to both of them now).

When the days are too hot, they go there, finding relief in the cool shade of the trees and the mist that kicks up from the spray. Kurt laughs—and Blaine has come to love his laugh—and teases, knowing Blaine will put no inch of himself in the water and yet insists they come anyway.

Today, the air around them is thick with the summer’s heat and their shirts stick uncomfortably to their backs. Blaine stopped wearing his waistcoat long ago and his loafers have cracked and worn from all the ways he’s abused them. They settle on the rocks, watching the water cascade, and Blaine closes his eyes as the mist sweeps across his overheated skin.

“This is ridiculous.” Kurt announces, and Blaine opens his eyes in time to see him stand.

“What is?” He asks, watching as Kurt balances himself against the stone with one hand and unlaces and removes his boots with the other.

“ _This_.” He gestures to them and tucks his boots away from view. “It’s hotter than sin.” Blaine watches, still not quite understanding, when Kurt straightens his back and pulls his shirt over his head. Blaine looks away, suddenly feeling hotter than he had a moment before.

“What are you  _doing?_ ” He hisses, still averting his eyes.

“Really?” Kurt shoots back, unamused. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Blaine glances over at Kurt, completely shirtless and working off the laces of his trousers, and looks away again just as quickly. He stammers a few times and then squeezes his eyes shut, trying to gain hold of himself.

“Undressing in the middle of the woods?” Blaine ventures. When Kurt doesn’t answer, he looks over again and sees him poised on the edge of the rock over the water. Blaine can see the long line of his back, smooth and elegant from the length of his neck to his—

Blaine averts his eyes again and wonders what’s wrong with him and why the sight of another boy in his breeches makes him quite so uncomfortable. It’s not as if he’s seeing anything he doesn’t have himself, yet...

When Blaine looks again, he  _lets_  himself look. He lets himself admire the graceful turn of Kurt’s neck and the strength in his shoulders, following the lines down to his trimmed waist that’s normally hidden by the billows of his shirt. He’s thinner without his clothing, but it doesn’t make him look weak or fragile. Blaine has seen the strength in those arms as Kurt’s chopped wood and climbed trees and scaled cliffsides. His long fingers, fingers that Blaine has watched knead bread and work nimbly with a needle and thread and delicately weave dough into art, rest against his thighs and Blaine feels his face burn—it shouldn’t, he shouldn’t be embarrassed, he  _shouldn’t_ —as his eyes slide to the supple curve of Kurt’s backside. The fabric of Kurt’s breeches leaves little to the imagination; it molds to the curves of his body, putting the strength of his thighs on display.

Blaine bites his lip and feels his mouth go dry as he tries to speak—he suddenly feels the need to say something,  _anything_ , that will help him tear away his gaze—when Kurt lifts his arms above his head and dives off the rock.

Just like that, Blaine is moving, scrambling to the edge in a panic just in time to see Kurt break through the surface of the water. His skin is a stark contrast to its murky, emerald depths and he quickly brushes the hair plastered to his face up and away.

“I can’t believe you just did that!” Blaine shouts, aghast, although a part of him certainly  _can_. Kurt always seems to surprise him, one day insistent that he won’t put a finger in the lake water and the next diving into a pool in the middle of the forest. Blaine can’t help but wonder if maybe the person he’d seen all that time ago, staring out across the forest and seeming so heartbreakingly lost, is starting to break through Kurt’s mask. Blaine wonders if he has somehow gained the privilege of being the only one Kurt dares to show it to.

“Are you coming in?” Kurt calls up to him over the din of the falls and Blaine blanches. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of water, Blaine.”

“ _No_ ,” Blaine spits back, indignantly, but he still doesn’t make any movement towards joining Kurt. He stares at the barely visible movement of Kurt’s arms below the surface and bites his lip again.

“Are you afraid of me?” Kurt continues to tease and Blaine smiles—if he’d found anything scary about Kurt, it had long since been replaced with the softness of Kurt’s smiles and the pleasant, lulling sound of his voice.

“Now you’re being silly,” Blaine mumbles and there’s that smile, as if Kurt is honestly relieved to know that Blaine isn’t afraid of him.

“Don’t make me come and get you.”

Blaine shrinks back, staring at the rock he’s sitting on rather than Kurt’s face as he mumbles, “I can’t swim.”

“What?” Kurt calls up and Blaine’s head drops lower; he feels perfectly humiliated.

“I can’t swim!”

It’s silent for a moment and Blaine closes his eyes in dread.

“...you’re joshing me!”

Kurt sounds so honestly surprised that Blaine lifts his head and turns to glare down at him.

“No!” He calls back and then sighs. “I’ve never had reason to learn.” And, to be perfectly honest, Blaine had never thought he’d find a reason. Yet here he is, watching Kurt bob in the water feet below him and wishing he knew.

“So... You’re afraid you’ll drown?” Kurt asks, as if the concept is novel to him. Blaine snorts.

“That’s the general concern, yes, considering I’ll sink like a stone.”

“You honestly think I’d let you drown?”

Blaine looks down at where Kurt is in the water, hesitating. No, he doesn’t think Kurt would ever let him drown.

 _I won’t let you fall_.

“Blaine...” Kurt’s voice is softer now and Blaine can hardly hear him over the sound of the falls. “Life is supposed to be full of risks. That’s what makes it life. What are you living if you never take any?”

They keep eye contact and then Blaine nods, sitting back and pulling off his shoes. He doesn’t look to see if Kurt is watching him undress—he can only imagine the mortification he’d feel if he was—and sets his things back near Kurt’s immaculately folded clothing. He approaches the edge of the rock, the stone surprisingly warm beneath his bare feet, and stares down at Kurt in the water.

“You promise?” Blaine asks nervously and Kurt—face flushed, mouth slightly parted—shakes himself and then calmly meets Blaine’s eyes.

“As long as I live.”

Blaine nods, takes a deep breath, and feels like his jump off the rock is a leap of faith.

The water is cold and more solid than he thought it would be, and when he hits it, he immediately becomes frantic, trying to get his head back out of the water and gasping as his limbs flail. The water is thick around him and enveloping and he’s going to  _drown_ , Blaine is going to  _die_ , he’s going to—

“Calm down.”

Kurt is there, drawing him close until Blaine’s back is pressed to his chest and he’s no longer thrashing. Blaine stops feeling like he’s sinking and he starts to breathe again, slow and even, safe with the feel of Kurt’s fingers on his hips and the warmth and solidity of Kurt’s body behind him.

“You did it,” Kurt says into his ear, his breath hot against the shell and Blaine shudders—knows that Kurt can feel it with how closely together they’re pressed.

“I did it,” Blaine repeats, his own voice astonished where Kurt’s was proud.

“Relax, okay? I’m going to turn you around.”

Blaine nods and Kurt moves one hand to take hold of Blaine’s. He doesn’t turn Blaine the way Blaine expects—slow, careful, precise—but spins Blaine around almost like they’re dancing. Blaine yelps, hands quickly grasping at Kurt’s shoulders as Kurt laughs.

“Not funny!” But Blaine can’t hold his glare for long, dissolving into a smile. His heart beats loudly in his chest as he holds onto Kurt’s shoulders—strong, just like he’d imagined—and Kurt’s arms work back and forth like clockwork to keep them afloat.

“Kick your legs,” Kurt says softly, and Blaine can feel Kurt’s feet and calves and thighs brush against his own as they move back and forth. Blaine mimics him and feels himself become lighter in the water—not a stone, not at all.

“Look at you, swimming.”

“I’d hardly call this swimming,” Blaine replies, looking down at the water between them. It’s dark but he can still see the flash of their legs now and again.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Kurt says, voice quiet. Blaine looks up and is taken aback by how close they are. They’ve spent hours, days, weeks together, but they’ve never been this close. Blaine’s never touched this much of Kurt’s bare skin or been so close that their noses are nearly touching. He can clearly see all the freckles that cover Kurt’s face, all the different colors in Kurt’s eyes as they stare into Blaine’s.

Blaine has spent a lot of time with Kurt and with Kurt’s family, but he knows that this look is only for him. Kurt doesn’t look at anyone else this way. Only Blaine.

“Do what?” Blaine asks, just as quiet.

“Take things away from yourself.” Kurt’s voice dips lower, like he’s confiding a secret. “If something is yours, Blaine... Take it.” Kurt’s eyes are intent and Blaine feels his mouth go dry, suddenly captivated by the way the water clumps Kurt’s eyelashes and the way Kurt’s shoulders shift with movement beneath his fingers. He hears Kurt’s own breath catch slightly and Blaine’s heart is so loud it’s beating in his ears.

“Let me show you something.” And, just like that, the spell is broken again. Blaine blinks himself out of it and wonders if maybe there is magic involved. “Do you trust me?” Kurt asks, biting his lip and looking at Blaine like he’s holding Kurt’s heart and could so easily break it.

Blaine doesn’t hesitate when he breathes out a quiet, “Of course.”

Kurt smiles like sunshine.

“Let go and lean back.”

Blaine pauses for just a moment and then does just that, feels one of Kurt’s hands on his hip, reassuring and strong and keeping him safe. He breathes, slow and purposeful, as he leans backwards, and Kurt shifts until he’s beside Blaine.

“Let your legs come up.”

He’s confused—his legs belong beneath him, in the water, moving and keeping him up. But he trusts Kurt, knows that he’s right there, and stops moving his legs and kicks them out in front of him until he’s completely horizontal on the water’s surface. He expects them to fall back down, for his body to right itself, but he stays afloat.

“You’re floating.”

Blaine smiles at the sky above him, closes his eyes and revels in how light he feels. The water cradles him, hugging up around his ankles and his ears and his cheeks and Blaine knows that maybe he should feel terrified. But Kurt’s hand is there, pressed into the small of his back.

Kurt makes him feel safe.

 

 

It’s dark and Lima’s single bar is full of boisterous laughter and clouds of cigar smoke. Men holler and joke, sloshing alcohol on tables, chairs, and well-meaning bar patrons. Some of the men talk about the continued search for “that Anderson boy,” spinning tales about runaways going to the big cities, and devils and demons that haunt the forest and lure well-to-do children away from their homes.

Amidst all of this, Finn sits at a game table and blocks everything out but the bottom of his tankard and the cards in his hand. The men around him buzz with conversation, but are too drunk or too preoccupied to pay attention to the stranger.

Finn’s well aware that he shouldn’t be there, but things at home are getting to be too much. With each passing day, his family trusts Blaine more and more. Truly, Finn can find no fault with the boy other than the way that Kurt looks at him. He knows better than anyone how dangerous that look is, not for him or their family, but for  _Kurt_.

Kurt knows it, too. He was there to watch a look like that tear Finn apart and not even time can heal a wound so deep. And Finn has had a lot of time.

He’s home less and less, avoiding his ma’s worried looks and Burt’s disapproving ones. He sweeps the forest, keeping track of the search party that still searches for Blaine. It’s dwindled; fewer and fewer men coming to Mr. Anderson’s aid, the more time passes. Still, Finn does his duty and creates fake trails, covering the ones that could lead to the danger of discovery. He keeps an eye on Kurt and Blaine, but Kurt has always been thorough; no trails left, nothing left behind. It’s a game they’ve been playing for far too long.

Finn stares into his empty cup and feels all the years he carries settle onto his shoulders.

“Game, gentlemen.” He lays down his cards and the man behind him scowls, throwing his own cards down on the table and signaling a barmaid in hopes that alcohol might soothe his disgruntled state. Finn sweeps the money towards him when a hand lands on his arm.

“Third hand you’ve won in a row,” the man slurs suspiciously, and Finn just nods.

“Mighty right of you. Now if you’d be so kind as to let go of me.”

But the man’s hand clamps down even tighter.

“You’re a right cheat, that’s what you are. Like hell I’m letting some  _boy_ —” The man shakes at his arm and Finn stands abruptly, toppling the chair he was sitting in and pushing the man roughly off him. The man stumbles and then charges back, but before Finn can even get a good swing in, both he and the other man are being restrained.

“I don’t allow troublemakers in my bar!” The barkeep yells, and he’s the one holding Finn back. He could easily pull himself away from the man, but he doesn’t, glaring at the other patrons as he’s led from the bar. His winnings—all his winnings—are left behind and he grumbles to himself, kicking at one of the posts outside. He groans, rubbing his forehead and then sighing deeply, resigning himself to finding Hutch and heading home to sleep off the beers he shouldn’t have been drinking.

As he rides out, he doesn’t see the man who tails him, walking calmly until he sees Finn disappear into the woods. He peers out from beneath his yellow hat and grins, walking away with a whistle on his lips.

 

 

The night is warm and they are long since dry, but Blaine helps Kurt build a fire atop one of the rocks and they dress and watch the stars blink to life. Blaine’s toes curl pleasantly from the warmth of the fire as he sits, back pressed to a rock and Kurt beside him, and he remembers being very young and running barefoot across manicured lawns.

It’s quiet around them save the subtle sounds of the forest and the water; occasionally, they’ll get the hoot of an owl or the howl of a wolf far in the distance. As the night grows deeper, the air fills with the sounds of crickets and frogs, bringing the forest to life. They don’t speak, not then; their days can be filled with chatter, but Blaine is also used to their silences—comfortable, light silences.

Instead he listens, content to have Kurt silent beside him.

“It’s like music, isn’t it?” Kurt says quietly as they listen, and Blaine closes his eyes and smiles. He stands abruptly and Kurt looks up at him, confused, but Blaine only holds his hands out. Kurt takes them without question, standing as well, and Blaine watches the firelight cast shadows across Kurt’s face.

“What are we doing?” Kurt asks as Blaine pulls him away from the overhang and out into the open. The light from the fire stretches in a comfortable circle and their bare feet move easily on the rock.

“It’s music. What do you do when there’s music?” Blaine twirls Kurt around, copying what they’d done earlier in the water. “You dance.”

Kurt laughs and Blaine twists them around. There’s hardly a beat aside from the slap of their feet against stone, but it doesn’t matter. They dance, hands joined, switching from a foxtrot to a waltz to absolutely nothing at all until their own laughter covers up any of the sounds they’d been hearing before.

By the end of it—the end being when they’re laughing too hard and are too breathless to continue—they cling to one another, shaking with laughter, and Blaine feels absolutely wonderful. When Kurt looks at him there’s such happiness in his eyes that Blaine feels like he might melt from the warmth of it all.

They stare at one another and something changes in Kurt’s face—like he’s changed his mind about something or has come to some sort of decision.

“Blaine.” His voice is quiet, but there’s something else to it. Something akin to determination and, beneath that, unmistakable fear. The happiness that had flooded his eyes disappears and all Blaine can see there now is sadness. He’s only seen Kurt look this sad once before, and Kurt had quickly hidden that part away from him. And now he’s here, laying himself bare for only Blaine to see, under the intimate glow of firelight. Blaine’s heart jumps into his throat.

“What is it?” Blaine asks, and he stills as Kurt’s fingers come up to his face. The tips skim along his cheek and then he’s pushing some of Blaine’s curls away and off his forehead, the gesture timid and unsure. Blaine holds his breath and waits, marveling at the simple touch and how painfully it winds the tightness in his chest.

“I need to tell you something,” Kurt whispers, and his voice wavers. Blaine longs to reassure him, to pull him close and tell him that whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s okay. Whatever it is, Blaine doesn’t  _care_. Whatever it is, nothing between them will change. But he does none of these things. He stands there and waits for Kurt to find his voice again.

“How much do you know of the world, Blaine?” Kurt asks; he always asks the big questions first—questions that Blaine never has an answer to.

“Very little.” It had once made him feel ashamed of himself and the life he’s led, but there’s more to his life now. There’s Kurt singing the songs of the gondoliers in flawless Italian, stories of huge ships traveling the ocean and how New York City could make even a giant feel small and insignificant. There are things like, “wait until you see Paris covered in snow” and “Rome will take your breath away; it’s a piece of art all its own.” There are silent  _somedays_  and quiet promises that neither of them put words to, but they’re words that make Blaine dream again.

“Kurt?” Blaine prompts after minutes pass in silence.

“Do you remember how I said I was different, Blaine?”

Blaine nods; Kurt  _is_  different, and he would know that even if Kurt didn’t seem so intent on repeating himself, telling Blaine again and again, as if it’s the most important thing about him. He’d said before that Blaine might be different, too, and the knowledge that Blaine wasn’t an exact replica of every other socially privileged boy his age had been a reassurance he hadn’t known he needed.

“When you go back...” Kurt pauses and Blaine sucks in a breath; they don’t talk about Blaine going back, have skirted the subject for weeks, and Kurt can’t even look at Blaine as he speaks. Blaine watches Kurt’s face turn pained. “When you go back, one day you’ll be a husband. And a father.” Kurt takes a large breath and Blaine tries not to think of the picture Kurt is trying to paint him this time—he doesn’t want to see it. “I’ll never be those things, Blaine.”

Blaine doesn’t understand.

“I’ll never have a wife, and I’ll never have children, because I’m different.”

Before, when Kurt would say he was different, it was always a little sad and yet had been said with a sense of confidence and pride. Now, it’s said with venom, as if different is the worst thing Kurt could be.

Blaine doesn’t want to imagine a world where Kurt is anything but what he is right in this moment.

“Do you know what homosexuality is, Blaine?” The word is bitter as it comes from Kurt’s mouth, sounding strange and foreign.

Blaine remembers back to his Latin lessons, eyes squinted, but ultimately shakes his head; Kurt laughs bitterly and harshly says, “Of course.”

But the frustration and anger fades, the fight fading and leaving Kurt with heavy shoulders and a dipped head. Blaine worries for a moment that he’s going to pitch forward and collapse, but he doesn’t. He continues to stare down, his hands curled loosely around Blaine’s elbows.

“I don’t think anyone knows. People think, they have theories. I’ve read papers, been... Been everywhere, looking for answers. People call it a sin and a crime. It’s an abomination and a  _disease_ , a  _sickness_  that can be cured. That it’s  _wrong_.” Kurt’s folding in on himself, one arm moving to clutch across his chest in an almost desperate fashion as the other keeps hold of Blaine’s elbow. 

“Then what is it?” Blaine asks quietly and Kurt lifts his head. He doesn’t look so scared now, and Blaine can practically see him swallow down any hope that might have been sparking inside of him. Hope for what, though?

“To me... It’s falling in love.” Kurt’s hand tightens around Blaine’s elbow and Blaine’s breathing turns shallow. “But not the way other people fall in love, I...” Kurt licks his lips and stares at Blaine, and he looks so frightened that it hurts Blaine to see it. “I don’t... Love women, Blaine.” Their eyes lock and and Kurt’s breath seems to stutter out of him, like he’s moments away from tears. “I love other men,” he whispers, eyes desperate and searching Blaine’s frantically.

Searching for what, Blaine doesn’t know, only that there seems to be a crash of silence over him, as if someone has stuck his head under water. He stares at Kurt, can feel his heart beating in his chest, and Kurt stares back, his face broken open completely now to let Blaine  _see_ , to let Blaine  _in_.

Kurt’s hand moves up and he hesitantly touches Blaine’s cheek—this time, it feels like lightning.

“I...” Kurt’s voice is low, rough, shaky. “I want to... To hold other men close. To kiss them... Kiss them goodnight, and good morning, and kiss them simply because I can. I want... To show them Paris when it snows.” Kurt steps closer but Blaine doesn’t look away from his eyes, can hardly  _breathe_. “I want to take them to the Eiffel Tower and we’ll climb every stair to the top.”

“Sixteen hundred and fifty two,” Blaine whispers and Kurt’s lips spread into a shaky smile.

“Sixteen hundred and fifty two.” He waits, his thumb sliding carefully over Blaine’s cheekbone. “...do you think I’m sick?”

The question shocks Blaine more than anything else Kurt has just told him. He thinks about Kurt, the Kurt he knows better than he knows himself. The Kurt who whistles while he bakes and carves swans into pieces of wood as if he was drawing on paper. The Kurt who refuses to help his father fish but lets cherries dye his skin purple and red as he fixes them into a pie with a smile. He thinks about the Kurt who stands on top of the world, backlit by the sun, and looks more beautiful than anything else. He thinks about the sweetness of Kurt’s smile and the way his laugh fills him up, how he falls asleep every night to the lull of Kurt’s voice, how empty his hand feels when their fingers aren’t laced together.

Blaine thinks about all of the things Kurt just said and how badly he wants for them.

But he can’t speak, doesn’t trust himself, and he shakes his head very carefully.

There’s hope again, sparking to life in Kurt’s eyes, and suddenly Blaine can feel the brush of Kurt’s breath against his lips, the tips of their noses touching. He stops, looking at Blaine, uncertain, and so Blaine does the only thing he can think of doing—he closes his eyes, feels Kurt suck in a sharp breath, and then there’s the dry brush of lips against his own.

His whole body feels rocked by even this simplest of touches, and his eyes open to see the brightness of Kurt’s eyes staring at him, shining like stars as the fire reflects in them. He doesn’t move and neither does Blaine, locked in one another’s gazes, Blaine afraid of breaking the spell this time—he wants it to stay.

“Was that all right?” Kurt asks, voice shuddery and warm against Blaine’s lips. Blaine’s lips part, intent on words, but then he’s pressing up and kissing Kurt again.

Blaine can feel the way Kurt’s body relaxes, how he presses back into the kiss, and Blaine tries not to think about how this is his first kiss.  _Well_ , he thinks, trying not smile,  _second kiss_. Kurt’s hand slides into his curls and grips them, pulling Blaine closer, and Blaine feels like he’s been unfrozen.

His hands find Kurt’s waist and hold, tugging him closer, and it’s suddenly like everything he’s been feeling since he saw Kurt in the woods for the first time makes sense. Relief and understanding floods through him and he tugs Kurt even closer—he can’t be close  _enough_ —until  their chests are pressed together.

“Blaine.” Kurt’s voice is hardly more than a breath as they break apart, but then Blaine is kissing Kurt again. Kurt lets out a sound of surprise, his arms winding around Blaine’s neck as he sinks into the kiss. But Kurt breaks away, trying to get Blaine’s attention, except that Blaine kisses him  _again_ ; catches kisses on the corner of Kurt’s mouth until they slide together, hits their noses again until they turn and find the right angle.

Blaine doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to stop kissing Kurt now that he has—now that he knows that he  _can_.

“Blaine,” Kurt repeats, his voice stronger, and he’s  _laughing_ , and Blaine really needs to kiss him again—only Kurt pulls away and stops him.

“No,” Blaine says without meaning to and he watches Kurt’s already flushed face darken. He blinks his eyes, clearing the haze that kissing had put there, and notices how red Kurt’s lips have become and how his eyes have gone considerably darker. It just makes him want to lean in again, unfurls an insistent warmth low in his abdomen that he wants to satiate. Kurt ducks down to press one more quick kiss to Blaine’s lips and then he’s stepping back, laughing as Blaine grabs at his shirt and tries to keep him close.

“I...” Kurt stops, touching his face and he’s laughing, and Blaine doesn’t know how he didn’t understand before—how he didn’t  _see_ , when Kurt has always been this beautiful. Blaine can only wonder what’s going through Kurt’s head at that moment. He’s always known he’s been this way, and Blaine is just beginning to understand. He remembers the broken look in Kurt’s eyes as he’d told Blaine and he wants to wrap him up in his arms, to assure him as if their bruised lips aren’t assurance enough.

Kurt looks at Blaine, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, but his smile unrestrained and beaming. His mouth moves, but every time he attempts to talk, he splutters, laughs, wipes at his eyes. And then he’ll look at Blaine, his body loose with relief. Blaine can’t stop himself from walking towards him and pulling him into a crushing hug.

“I—” Kurt buries his face in the crook of Blaine’s neck and Blaine holds him, slides one of his hands into Kurt’s soft hair. The affectionate kisses he touches to Kurt’s forehead and temple come without thought; they’re natural, as if Blaine has always done such things. “I was so afraid, I thought you would...”

Blaine hugs Kurt tighter and feels his hands grip fiercely at the back of Blaine’s shirt. He can’t imagine what Kurt thought he would do or what kind of pain it might have caused him. Did Kurt expect him to run away? To sneer and be disgusted? To forget everything, to forget Kurt, and replace every single flutter of his heart with distance and hate?

It occurs to Blaine that Kurt’s fears must not be unfounded and he wants to keep Kurt there in his arms, forever, protected from the world that hates him. A world that will hate Blaine now, too.

“Blaine?” Kurt whispers, when he’s done shaking and his breathing is regular again. Blaine pulls back and he moves his hand slowly, brushing his fingertips across the contours of Kurt’s face in a way he would sometimes think about and then scold himself for. Kurt’s eyes flutter at the touch and he leans into it, smiling, but there’s still a sadness there. “I have one more thing to tell you.”

“Okay.” Whatever it is, Blaine knows it won’t change anything. Not now. He’d needed Kurt before, but now he knows that nothing will tear them apart.

“No more secrets after this,” Kurt promises, eyes earnest. Blaine nods. Kurt slips reluctantly from his arms and leads Blaine back towards where they’d been sitting before. The fire has banked lower, but it’s still warm and they sit close together. Kurt twists to face Blaine and takes Blaine’s hands, lacing their fingers together and smiling shakily. Blaine brushes his thumb over Kurt’s knuckles, as if trying to reassure him, but it doesn’t seem to help.

“Do you remember when I told you I was a hundred and four?” Kurt asks. Blaine’s face pinches in confusion and he casts back, back to those first days, and tries to remember. A joke, brushed aside and forgotten, but he remembers now. He nods. Kurt holds his eyes and says, with all seriousness, “I wasn’t being funny, Blaine. I  _am_  a hundred and four years old.” There’s no humor in Kurt’s face. “It’s the absolute honest truth.”

Blaine’s eyebrows scrunch down again.

“What do you mean?” That’s not... It’s not possible.

“I mean... I’m going to live forever.” He grips Blaine’s hands tighter. “I can’t... I can’t die.”

“That...” Blaine blinks and shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

Kurt smiles wryly, staring at their linked hands as if they’re the only thing keeping Blaine beside him.

“Do you remember that tree? From the day we first met?”

Blaine nods.

“Do you remember the spring? And the water I wouldn’t let you drink?”

Of course he does. That was the day they met, the day that Blaine’s entire life changed. He nods again.

“That water isn’t poisoned, there aren’t  _toads_  in it, but... But there’s something wrong with it, Blaine.” Kurt doesn’t look up at him, but traces patterns into the skin on the back of his hand and holds tightly. “Pa, Carole, Finn, me... We all drank from it. We’re all the same. We’ll... We don’t change. It’s been eighty six years, and I... No wrinkles, no grey hairs, not even a  _scar_  to show for it.” His voice gets rough as if voicing these things is reason enough to cry. “As far as I know, as any of us know... I—I’ll be eighteen until the end of the world,” Kurt whispers.

Blaine can’t fathom it. He can’t fathom all of this on top of everything else and he feels like he’s being split in two. He wishes Kurt would have waited, but what time is a good time to tell someone that you’re never going to die? What opportunity is right to tell someone that you’ll never age?

He doesn’t know how long he’s been looking into the fire when Kurt squeezes his hands and says, “Please say something.”

_How can you not die? Are you human? What does this mean for me? What does this mean for_ **_us_ ** _?_

“I—” Blaine’s voice sticks in his throat, but he at least turns back to look at Kurt. “I don’t know  _what_  to say.” Kurt chews his lip and nods—small, tiny, consecutive nods, and then he sits straighter and draws his shoulders back, the way he does whenever he’s trying to appear stronger than he really is.

“Maybe I should tell you the story from the beginning?” Kurt asks, and Blaine nods, waiting. Kurt’s eyes stay on his, but they turn distant and slightly unfocused as he draws up the memories. Blaine can hardly remember things from ten years ago, he can’t imagine trying to look back  _eighty_ - _six years_.

“We’d been traveling... I don’t remember for how long, only that we were looking to settle. The woods weren’t quite so thick as they are now and Lima... Well, Lima didn’t exist at all. I don’t know how we found the spring, reckon the sound of water drew us near. We all had a drink—even Hutch. But not the cat.” Kurt smiles wryly. “That’s important.

“It... I couldn’t tell you what it tastes like, Blaine. It tastes like nothing you’ve ever tasted before, like no water is supposed to taste. Pa, he carved the H into the tree so we could always find our way back to it. Then, we continued westward.

“Pa built a house, a different house, the first one. We’ve lived here a long time, but... But not always.” He falls silent for a moment, seeming to struggle, and Blaine grasps his hands reassuringly. Kurt flashes him a strained, but thankful smile.

“It wasn’t long before we realized something had happened to us, something was... Was wrong. I was up in that tree, the big one right by the house. I couldn’t tell you why I was up there, but... I fell.” Kurt’s voice goes quiet. “Snapped my neck.”

Blaine gasps and Kurt winces.

“Pa... He was running to me. Carole was crying. But then I... I was standing up again before Pa had even reached me.” His voice is shaking and Blaine fights the urge to pull him close, to tell him to stop, but he knows that he needs to hear it. He knows that Kurt has to tell him. “I can’t die, Blaine. I can’t get sick, I can’t grow old. I wonder sometimes what would happen if I drowned, if there was no air to breathe; what would happen to me then? But I... I wouldn’t even be able to feel it...”

Blaine remembers his hands, covered in cuts from a knife and how much they’d stung.

“It wasn’t just me. Hutch, he... Was out grazing and some men thought he was a deer.” Kurt lets out a dry laugh. “Shot him. Only... He didn’t die. Didn’t even scar. Startled and ran. Then Carole, she got bitten by a snake—a rattler. She didn’t die, neither. None of us knew what was happening, but it wasn’t long before Pa realized it was the spring. We’d all had a drink, it made the most sense at the time. And Pa decided we’d keep it a secret, wouldn’t tell anybody, that it was too dangerous. And that seemed to be that.

“You aren’t the first person to know, Blaine.”

Blaine blinks in surprise and feels something close to cruel disappointment inside of him. It’s still just the four of them, and if there’d been someone they’d told before...

“Finn, he... He fell in love.” Kurt smiles sadly. “Her name was Quinn and the prettiest girl I ever saw, Blaine.” But he squeezes Blaine’s hand, as if reminding him where his true interests lie. “They married, and Pa and I helped Finn build them a house not too far away. We spent so much time there, especially when the children came.”

Blaine’s breathing nearly stops.  _Children_. Finn was a father.

“Annabelle... And Christopher. Finn loved them with all his heart.  _I_ loved them.” Kurt begins to blink rapidly. “I used to... Used to sing them to sleep sometimes. I’d hold Christopher and hum, and Quinn, she’d...”

“Kurt,” Blaine whispers, his voice breaking at the amount of sorrow laced in Kurt’s words. Kurt stops speaking, taking a few moments to compose himself, attempting to wipe at his eyes without Blaine noticing and failing horribly.

“Finn, he couldn’t bear the thought of watching his family grow old. He begged Pa, begged him night and day so that he could tell Quinn about the spring. We were all there that day, sitting in their living room. I still remember the look of horror on Quinn’s face. She yelled, screamed, called us... Monsters, demons. Thought we’d sold our souls to the devil himself. Then... She left. Took Anna and Christopher with her. Took the parts of Finn that mattered and left behind his shell.”

“Everything changed then. There was talk of witchcraft, black magic. Men came on horses and burned our houses to the ground, and we... We barely got away. That’s when Finn left. Left for years before we saw him again... All of us still the same. Except the cat... Died of old age,” Kurt says, laughing humorlessly. “I never heard what happened to Quinn, or to Anna and Christopher, but we never saw or heard from them again. Finn, he couldn’t stay here long, and I decided to go with him—look after him and see the world at the same time. Maybe find the things I’ve always wanted, too.”

Kurt’s voice fades into the crackle of the fire and they sit in silence, hands held so tightly that Blaine can hardly feel his but he doesn’t let go. He won’t let go, no matter what.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever told.” Kurt looks at Blaine, voice dropped in a hush. “That you didn’t... You didn’t run, that you aren’t looking at me like I’m... Like I’m not  _human_.” Blaine feels guilt at even thinking it before, but of course Kurt is human. He’s silent, but he lifts one of their joined hands and presses it just over Kurt’s heart.

“I’d say that makes you pretty human.”

Kurt makes a choked sound, closing his eyes. Blaine thinks of how much he’s seen in those eyes and how much it makes sense. He thinks of the way Finn skirts around him, always looking sad and drawn. Finn had someone and he’d lost them; how long ago was that? Had he outlived his own wife and children?

Kurt’s hands slip from Blaine’s and, before he can protest, he’s holding his arms open. Blaine thinks it’s backwards—that after everything, he should be holding Kurt. But he goes to him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist and pressing his face against Kurt’s neck. He feels Kurt’s cheek press against his hair, fingers trailing up and down his spine.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt whispers.

“What for?”

“For kissing you before you knew what I was.”

Blaine draws back and meets Kurt’s eyes, and then leans in very decidedly and kisses him. Kurt kisses back more fiercely than he did before and Blaine can practically taste his fear and desperation, but he gives back as good as he’s getting. It’s too much and there are times when Blaine can taste  _more_ —can feel Kurt’s hot breath against his mouth or the careful tip of his tongue brushing along his bottom lip. But it slows, slows and slows until they’re just sitting there, foreheads pressed together and wrapped in each other’s arms.

“You’re Kurt,” Blaine says, his voice hoarse with emotion. “You’re Kurt, and that’s all that matters to me.”


	7. Chapter 7

Things change—not big things, although maybe they should. 

The secret has been cracked open in front of Blaine and it surrounds him on every side now. But it doesn’t suddenly turn any of the Hummels into something different. Burt still fishes off the side of the dock, Carole still scolds Finn for dragging mud into the house, and Kurt is...

Kurt is still Kurt, although there really is no  _still_  about it.

The only dramatic change comes to the two of them. Not because he’ll never wrinkle or turn grey or he’s looked this way since before Blaine’s own grandparents were born—Blaine doesn’t know if it’s just easy for him to ignore or forget about, or if his brain simply can’t fully comprehend the idea of Kurt being everlasting. No, things change because it’s not just Kurt’s  _life_ that has revealed itself to Blaine, but it’s Kurt as well.

When Kurt looks at him now, there is no guard in his eyes. There is no layer of secrets between them. And when Blaine forgets how to breathe, when his heart jumps in his throat and his entire body twists and flutters, he understands. He understands, and Kurt takes his hand and makes it all right.

They still spend every moment of the day together. They walk leisurely, fingers laced, but now, Kurt will stop them, gently cup Blaine’s face, and kiss him. Kurt will kiss him because he  _can_  and Blaine always kisses back, every time, giddy with the feel of it and the breathless giggles that pass between their mouths.

If Blaine had thought his life with the Hummels had been happiness before, he really had no idea what true happiness was. He hadn’t known it was secret smiles over breakfast, Kurt’s hands pressed against his back, the way his arms felt wrapped around Kurt’s waist, the slow slide of lips and the gentle brush of eyelashes. It’s the way Kurt comes down after everyone has gone to bed and they curl up on Blaine’s tiny bench, whispering nothing and everything into the darkness with Blaine’s ear pressed to Kurt’s heart. 

It’s under the quiet watch of the forest that they trade kisses and run hands over arms and shoulders and smile like they can’t do anything  _but_  smile, where Kurt sings, running fingers through Blaine’s hair as Blaine links daisies together and loops them around Kurt’s neck.

And Blaine wonders if this is what love feels like.

 

 

It’s not their secret for long. It’s waking up one morning and Kurt leading him outside, where Finn, Carole, and Burt are waiting. The air is too quiet and solemn and Kurt grips his hand tightly and Blaine can see it in all of their eyes. Carole looks at their joined hands and seems close to tears from it, smiling shakily and sadly and pressing the hem of her apron to her mouth.

“Blaine Anderson,” Burt begins, and Blaine stands still under the Hummels’ joined and watchful gazes. “You are the only person in the world who knows about us.” Blaine’s aware of the gravity of the situation, but before he can open his mouth to say as much, Burt is stepping forward. He grabs Kurt and Blaine’s joined hands and separates them, giving Kurt a stern look when he starts to protest. Blaine tries not to think of how much Kurt’s hand had been grounding him and how lost he feels without it now.

“I trust my boy’s done our story justice, but now we need to have a talk. Come on.” He grips Blaine’s shoulder and steers him away, and Blaine throws one last glance over his shoulder to see Carole wrap her arm around Kurt as Kurt sends him an encouraging, yet shaky, smile.

Burt doesn’t say anything as he leads Blaine to the dock and then gestures to the small row boat Blaine’s never set foot inside. He doesn’t question it, stepping in uneasily and trying not to become nervous at the prospect of all the deep, dark water around him. It’s quiet as Burt rows, away from the house and his family, until they’re floating, just the two of them, in the stillness of the lake.

It seems a good long while before Burt speaks, his voice low as he stares around them. The forest grows to the edges of the lake on every side and, from here, Blaine wouldn’t know in which direction they’d come from if not for the sliver of the dock.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

It’s not what Blaine’s expecting, but he nods, because it is.

“And it’s full of life. Every inch of it. From the ants in the ground, to the flowers and the trees, the frogs and the fish and the squirrels. There is so much life, Blaine.” Burt turns away from gazing out at the world around them and back to Blaine. The eyes that stare into his aren’t exactly like Kurt’s, but they’re that same blend of blue and green that Blaine has become so familiar with. In Kurt, they represent everything beautiful and bright, but Burt’s eyes are old, and dimmer than maybe they once were. But there’s still that sadness—the same sadness they all carry in their eyes.

“Everything is a part of the wheel, Blaine. Everything... It changes. Grows. I’ve walked through these woods for... For too long, and they’re always different now. Because that’s life. That’s  _you_ , Blaine. You’re changing and growing and you’ll keep doing just that.” Burt leans forward a bit. “But you could stop. Stop right now. You wouldn’t grow, you wouldn’t change. You’d look at your reflection every day and it’d always be the same.”

Burt sighs, rubbing at the back of his head before shaking it.

“It’s not my place, I know it ain’t. I’m not trying to... To stop you, to make your decision for you. But I have to make you understand. If you’re gonna make a decision, you need to know which you’re making.”

Blaine plucks uncomfortably at his pants. He hadn’t known it  _was_  a choice. Kurt hadn’t mentioned it—not the spring, not Blaine’s return home, not the fact that Blaine grows older every day and Kurt never changes. Right now, those changes are insignificant, small, invisible. But Blaine’s going to die one day.

“...I don’t want to die,” he whispers, clutching at his knees. “Is that so wrong?”

“No,” Burt says immediately, and it surprises Blaine. He looks up and Burt’s face is more compassionate. “No one wants to die, Blaine. Our whole lives, death is our greatest fear.” Burt clasps his hands together. “But death is a part of that wheel, Blaine. The bugs, the flowers, the trees, the frogs,  _people_... They all live, but they all die, too. Death is... It’s the same as being born. You can’t _have_  life without death.”

 _Why not?_  Blaine would still be living. He’d be breathing the air, seeing the world. He would have time for everything, everything he’s ever  _wanted_  to do and things he can’t even fathom yet. He’d see things change, watch the future become something bigger, something greater.

“Don’t be afraid of death, Blaine,” Burt says with conviction. “Be afraid of the unlived life.”

It’s strange to Blaine. The life he had been living, the seventeen years before he ever knew about the Hummels’ existence, hadn’t felt much like life at all. But his time here with them? It  _has_  been life. It’s been everything that Blaine has always wanted, always needed, and never knew existed. It’s family,  _real_  family, acceptance, affection, and love. In no time at all, Blaine’s entire world has spun on its axis and everything has changed.  _He’s_  changed. Parts of him that he’d buried, ignored, or never knew existed, have come out of hiding and they’re a part of him now.

He thinks of his family and of the life he’d led before. He thinks of walking with a girl on his arm under the watchful eye of a chaperone. He thinks of tea time and blazers and the clock in the parlor, ticking too loud and marking the slow passing of time.

And then he thinks of everything else. He thinks of rowdy talk and singing over dinner with the Hummels. He thinks of Carole’s sunny smiles as he helps her in the garden, and of Burt’s gruff laughter. He thinks of spending his day, every day, exactly as he pleases, running and laughing and letting every part of him burst through unfettered. He thinks of New York, London, and Paris. He thinks of Germany, Spain, and Italy. He thinks of crossing oceans and seeing the world, covering every inch of it until he’s seen all there is to see and then starting all over again.

Then Blaine thinks of Kurt.

He thinks of the way his heart fills at the sight of him. He thinks of Kurt’s smile, his laugh, his voice, the care in which he carves, the affection in his teasing, the bite of his wit, the way he loves his father and family, and the gentle way he looks at Blaine like Blaine is everything.

And maybe Blaine is young and stupid, but maybe he really is in love with this beautiful, wonderful, amazing  _boy_  and the thought of spending decades, years, months, weeks, days, even  _minutes_ without him feels suffocating.

But then he remembers the fear in Kurt’s eyes. He remembers the way Kurt’s voice broke, the way his entire world hung on whether or not Blaine thought Kurt had a sickness. The way Kurt has traveled the world looking for a place to belong and all he’s found are accusations and hate.

Blaine thinks of every girl he’s ever had tea with or talked to or smiled at, and then he thinks of Kurt, and Blaine  _knows_. He knows that he and Kurt are the same. What does that mean for him in a life without Kurt?

They sit and don’t talk, the silence feels heavy, but Blaine has no idea how to end it. Instead, he silently takes the oars and begins to row them back to shore when Burt makes no motion to stop him. Blaine knows he has a lot to think about and it feels like there isn’t enough time for it all. Suddenly, he feels like nothing will ever be enough time.

From the far shore of the lake, their boat is tracked through the watchful eyes of binoculars.

 

 

Despite what the town of Lima might think of him, Sebastian Smythe is not that strange a man. While their simple minds might find his choice of clothing and career questionable, he finds their provincial way of life rather droll and incredibly lacking. There’s no excitement, no adventure, no thrill of the chase. Even the brief kick-up that had occurred after the young Anderson’s disappearance had not lasted long before people reverted back to their dull and monotonous lifestyles.

Sebastian doesn’t pay the town, or its people, any sort of consideration. They’re only an inconvenience of proximity, after all.

He sits, legs crossed, in the neatness of the Andersons’ front parlor with a cup of tea dutifully provided by one of the maids. It reminds Sebastian of a life that could have been his if he hadn’t decided the world would, and should, hold so much more for him. He’d never known that his great aunt would be the key to it all, however.

When the Andersons finally join him, they’re perfectly put together. They’re an immaculate pair and no one would be able to tell that their son has been missing for nearly two months or how devastated they are.

“Mr. Smythe,” Mr. Anderson says tightly as they take their seats, and Sebastian dips his head formally and smiles. “We certainly weren’t expecting you.”

“Naturally. That would have meant inviting me and, from what I’ve heard, you haven’t been entertaining as of late,” Sebastian comments pleasantly, and watches as Mr. Anderson’s shoulders stiffen and his wife’s face breaks from pleasantly neutral to incredibly hopeless. “Still no luck with your son, I take it?”

“Mr. Smythe,” Mr. Anderson snaps icily, “if you came here for the sole purpose of upsetting me and my wife, then I think it’s best if you leave.”

“Now, now, there’s no reason to be hasty.” Sebastian makes himself more comfortable on their plush couch. “I came to see you both because I have information about your son’s whereabouts.”

This draws both of their attentions, just as Sebastian had intended; he has full command of the room now, and he revels in it. He continues to sit there, calmly sipping his tea through the silence. It’s good tea.

“Well?” Mr. Anderson prompts, trying to tamper down his hope and excitement with a frown. It’s really too easy. Things couldn’t have worked out better for Sebastian if he’d planned it all himself—although he certainly wouldn’t have been stuck here quite so long if he had. But in the end, he knows it was all worth it; after all, he’s been given the perfect bartering tool. Amazing what parents will do for their children.

“Come now, Mr. Anderson. You’re a businessman.” Sebastian folds his fingers together. “Certainly you know that something isn’t given for nothing.”

“Why you horrible—”

“Grace.” Mr. Anderson sets his hand on his wife’s shoulder and she sits back, but the look of pure hatred doesn’t leave her face. “What do you want, Mr. Smythe? Money isn’t an issue. We will pay you handsomely, and reward you when Blaine is found.”

“I don’t want your money, Mr. Anderson.” Sebastian cocks his head to the side and grins, as if he’s dealing with a particularly dense child rather than a man nearly three times his senior. He has to wonder how many times Mr. Anderson has been told that his money has no worth; from the look of shock on his face, Sebastian would guess it’s not very often.

“Please,” Mr. Anderson’s voice drops low and desperate, his wife clutching as his hand.

“You own the woods, do you not?” Sebastian asks casually, watching as confusion flickers across Mr. Anderson’s face.

“Yes, of course, but I—”

“The deed,” Sebastian states, plainly. “I would like the deed to those woods.”

Mr. Anderson still doesn’t seem able to process what exactly is going on, but Mrs. Anderson is quick to nod. When her husband still seems confused, she hisses a pointed, “ _Michael._ ”

“Right. Of course,” Mr. Anderson says and Sebastian revels in the sweetness of his inevitable victory. “It... It will take a few hours to draw up the documents, have them signed.”

“No rush. Your son is just in the hands of some rather dangerous people until it’s done.” Sebastian sips his tea again, neutrally.

“Tomorrow. I’ll have them for you tomorrow morning,” Mr. Anderson says, and Sebastian can tell he wishes there were a way to have them right at that moment. He’d like that, too, so that this game he’s been playing for years can finally come to an end. But he can be patient, if the prize is worth it, and it is.

“Then I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning. You show me the documents, I show you your son. And when he’s back in your arms, that forest is mine.” Sebastian holds out his hand and Mr. Anderson grasps it.

“You have a deal.”

 

 

They don’t ask Blaine to make a decision. Kurt asks him about the conversation he had with Burt, but Blaine just shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to talk about it, what he should say, or even what he wants. He needs  _time_ , but it turns out time is exactly what he doesn’t have. Shortly after they’d come back from their talk, Burt had announced it was time for them to move on and for Blaine to go home.

He’d felt like crying.

“We won’t go far,” Kurt promises that night, holding Blaine close and tracing his hand up and down Blaine’s back. They’re lying on Kurt’s bed, a cotton-stuffed mattress that is thin, homemade, and not incredibly comfortable, but it’s better than Blaine’s bench, and they’re actually alone. Finn had made a point of settling on the couch for the night, after sharing a significant look with Kurt, and thus giving them the best gift they could have asked for: privacy.

It isn’t the first time that Blaine’s been up here, but it’s the first time he won’t be slipping out of Kurt’s sleeping arms and going to bed by himself a floor below. The space doesn’t speak much of Kurt, except for a chest in which Kurt keeps his few belongings.

“We travel too much,” Kurt had explained. “Even after eighty years, it doesn’t give me a lot of time to accumulate things.”

Blaine nods, eyes closing as Kurt’s fingers thread through his curls.

“Don’t sleep yet,” Kurt hisses and Blaine smiles.

“I’m not.”

Kurt pecks him quickly and playfully on the lips and Blaine melts further into his arms.

“We’ll be going further into the woods,” Kurt continues to explain. “It’s too dangerous here now. Your father’s gotten too close. It wouldn’t be long before we were found if we didn’t leave.” Blaine nods. He understands, he  _does_ , he just wishes things could be different. He wishes he could go, too. He wishes he could disappear with these people he’s come to love. But he also understands why he can’t. As long as he’s missing, his parents will keep looking, and the Hummels will be driven further and further away from him.

“I’ll write you letters,” Kurt promises. “Until your parents let you outside again.”

Blaine snorts. He has no idea what will happen to him when he gets home. With how badly he had misbehaved, he knows his parents would have to be feeling particularly gracious to allow him past the front door. 

“When they trust you to go into the woods again, I’ll come see you,” Kurt promises and Blaine squeezes his eyes shut tight. The thought of not seeing Kurt every day aches—a big, gaping, empty hole that he wants to push his hands against, as if that would stop it from hurting him. “You remember the way to the spring, right?”

Blaine nods. Kurt had shown him, had led him carefully and pointed out landmarks. They’d stood there, in the place where they had met, and Blaine had kissed Kurt so hard they’d nearly fallen over.

“Good.” Kurt kisses his forehead and they fall silent, clinging to each other. Kurt lets out a shuddery breath and Blaine’s eyes flicker open as he pulls back, watching tears slip from Kurt’s closed eyes.

“Shhh, no, no.” Blaine quickly shifts them, pillowing Kurt’s head on his chest and holding him tightly. He feels pressure behind his own eyes and fights the urge to cry. Kurt needs him and he won’t cry, even if this does feel like goodbye.

“I feel like I’ve been looking for you forever,” Kurt admits quietly, looking up at Blaine with glassy eyes that reflect the moonlight. “And now I finally found you, and—”

“I know,” Blaine agrees, brushing his hand down Kurt’s wet cheek. “But you’re not going to lose me.” Kurt’s smile wavers and Blaine kisses him gently. They stay close, noses touching as they breathe together.

“Kurt?” Blaine whispers, what feels like hours later. “Are you awake?”

Kurt hums, but Blaine can tell that he’s almost asleep. He smiles, brushing his lips to Kurt’s hairline.

“I want to give you something.”

This seems to catch Kurt’s attention and his eyes flutter open; Blaine takes a moment to admire the gentle, sleep-heavy smile that Kurt aims at him and ducks down to kiss him.

“Was that my something?” Kurt asks, his voice slow and sleepy and Blaine chuckles, rubbing their noses together as he shakes his head.

“No,” Blaine says for good measure, and then reaches for his trousers, which are folded on the floor not far away. Kurt lifts himself up, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and watching Blaine curiously as he fishes in his pocket.

“My father will probably kill me, but...” Blaine turns back, his hands cupped and he lays beside Kurt again. “It was my grandfather’s, and my father’s after that, and it’s been mine since I was ten.” He opens his hands, fingers brushing against the silver casing and popping open the top.

“A pocket watch?” Kurt asks quietly, looking at it. He reaches out, brushing his own fingers on the cool metal and tracing the contours. It’s rather plain, lacking any real ornamentation, and it’s heavy when Kurt picks it up, the chain sliding smoothly through his fingers. Kurt looks at Blaine, eyebrows drawn in confusion.

“Would you take it with you?” Blaine asks, curling Kurt’s hands over it. It’s not much, and he knows it. It doesn’t even say a lot about him, but it’s the only thing he has, the only part of him that he has to give, and it’ll have to do. “Just... Just until we’re together again, so you always have a piece of me with you.”

Kurt stares at Blaine, holding the timepiece in his hands like it’s precious. Blaine imagines that it’s his heart, and maybe Kurt’s pretending that it is, too. But then Kurt is getting up quickly, stumbling as he untwists himself from the quilt that had been draped across them and heads for his chest. He’s still cupping the pocket watch, pressing it right against his heart.

“Kurt?” Blaine asks unsurely and when Kurt stumbles back, his face is flushed and he’s clutching something else.

He reaches for Blaine’s hand and presses a soft, dainty piece of smooth, white fabric into his fingers. It takes Blaine a moment to recognize what it is, his thumb and forefinger working the cloth back and forth, but even then he’s looking up at Kurt and trying to understand.

“That handkerchief was my mother’s,” Kurt tells him quietly. “Well, technically, it’s mine, but she made it for me.” He unfurls the cloth against Blaine’s palm, fingers tracing over the designs of florals and leaves. “After all these years, it’s one of the only things I have that’s mine, that has been everywhere with me.”

It’s so much more than Blaine’s silly pocket watch, but he doesn’t say anything as Kurt secures it in his hand.

“Now you’ll always have a piece of me with you, too.”

They only take the essentials; Kurt tells Blaine that this isn’t the first time they’ve had to move.

“We have houses hidden in all sorts of places,” he says. “It’s helpful when your pa can make furniture as long as there are trees around.”

They don’t tell Blaine exactly where they’re going, and he understands. Burt’s probably aware that Blaine would just come and find them sooner than he should, and lead the town back on their trail. They trust Blaine, but there are still some risks that are too dangerous to take.

He helps them, as much as it saddens him. But Kurt is working right next to the rest of them and if doing chores means Blaine can be by Kurt just those few moments longer, he’ll take it. He doesn’t think about the fact that, in a few hours, he’ll be home again. He can hardly remember what his clothes looked like all that time ago, and has since had old things of Kurt and Finn’s cut and mended to fit him. His hair is a wild mane and he hasn’t had a proper bath (in a tub rather than a creek or pool, with soap the servants buy rather than make) in ages. He’ll be surprised if his parents don’t throw him in a cage the moment they see him.

Blaine can’t stop himself from smiling every time he sees the sun glint off the chain of the pocket watch,  _his_  pocket watch, where it’s tucked into Kurt’s pocket. And, every so often, Kurt will stop and press his hand to Blaine’s heart, right where the handkerchief is safely tucked away.

It’s late morning when they finish and Blaine stands beneath the tree and stares at the house in silent sadness.

“Will you miss it?” Kurt whispers into his ear as he comes up behind Blaine. Blaine leans back instinctively, feeling Kurt’s arms loop around his waist and Kurt’s chin tuck over his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to—Kurt knows the answer.

“I’ll see it again someday, won’t I?”

Kurt nods and Blaine feels relief. It’s strange how attached he’s become to this cabin in the middle of the woods, but he has. He’ll miss the carvings in the wood and the smell of baking bread and the sound of someone chopping wood. Blaine closes his eyes and tries to imprint every single thing into his memory, but he knows he’ll forget it all too soon.

“Boys,” Burt calls in warning and they know what it means. It’s time for them to say their goodbyes.

Blaine spins in Kurt’s arms and hugs him tightly, crushing their bodies together as much as possible. He breathes Kurt in—the smell of trees and earth, of wood and bread—and revels in the way Kurt’s body feels against his, the press of his hands, the brush of his eyelashes, and commits every single thing to memory.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” Blaine whispers, his voice cracking, and Kurt pulls back, catching Blaine’s chin in his hand and smiling sadly at him.

“It’s not goodbye,” Kurt promises. “I’m never saying goodbye to you.” He tips Blaine’s chin up carefully and kisses him, gently at first and then harder, their hands turning desperate as they cling to one another.

“Well.”

Blaine and Kurt snap apart, turning with wide eyes as a stranger steps out of the trees.

“I hadn’t been expecting  _that_.”

Blaine stares at him with squinted eyes. He doesn’t notice the flurry of movement from the other Hummels, climbing down from the cart and hurrying towards them. Blaine can’t look away from the man, can’t understand why there’s something so familiar about him.

“Mr. Anderson, you have made your parents very worried.”

Blaine shuffles back a step and Kurt wraps his arms around him tightly, protectively. The man is wearing a yellow suit, and Blaine swears he’s seen it before.

“It’s you,” Kurt spits, and Blaine startles, looking up at Kurt in confusion.

“I’m touched you remember me,” the man grins, walking forward with a confident swagger in his step. “But I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I know that you’re the Hummels, and it seems a shame you don’t know who I am.”

He extends his hand, but none of the Hummels, or Blaine, go to take it.

“I’m Sebastian Smythe.” When he realizes that no one plans on shaking his hand, he retracts it with a dismissive and uncaring shrug. No one says anything, and Sebastian sighs out of boredom. “How very rude. None of you have even asked me why I’m here.” He turns his dark eyes on Blaine again. “Not even you, Blaine Anderson, and I thought your parents raised you better.”

Blaine recoils, disappointment building on his shoulders, and Kurt moves in front of him.

“Leave him alone,” he snarls, and Sebastian grins in amusement.

“Isn’t that cute.” Sebastian cocks his head to the side. “Really, Blaine Anderson. What will your parents think? What will they do when they find out what you are?”

“Stop it!” Kurt yells, and Blaine tries to breathe.

“If you have no business here,” Burt steps in, frowning. “I suggest you move on.”

“Oh, no, I certainly have business here. You see, Mr. Anderson’s parents have sent me to collect him. And, of course, to capture the horrible people responsible for his disappearance.” Sebastian frowns at them in a mocking way.

“We were just taking Blaine home—” Burt begins, but Sebastian shakes his head.

“I don’t think the police will believe that, do you?” Sebastian turns his head, looking past the cabin at the forest on the other side. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but that sounds like dogs.”

Blaine can hear it: the sharp barking of dogs and blowing of whistles in the woods. He sees the Hummels shrink back, caged, and can feel Kurt trembling beside him. He’s about to offer comfort, assure the Hummels that he’ll explain that he wasn’t kidnapped, that he ran, surely he can get his parents to listen—when his arm is tugged on violently and he’s pulled from the safety of Kurt’s side.

He gasps in pain and the next moment, his back is pressed to Sebastian’s chest, an arm locked around his chest and the cold barrel of a gun pressed to his temple. Blaine feels his breathing turn short and sharp, eyes moving wildly until he finds Kurt, who is immediately rushing towards him despite Burt shouting at him to stop.

It happens in an instant. The gun fires and Kurt falls to his knees, clutching his stomach.

“KURT!” Blaine lurches forward, struggles, wants to get away.  _No_. The tears start and he yells Kurt’s name again and again, trying to get to his side, when Kurt lifts his head.

Blaine stops moving, body frozen as he watches Kurt stand up. There isn’t even blood on his shirt. Blaine stares and Kurt hesitantly meets his eyes. There’s no way to ignore it now, no way to deny what his brain has been trying to suppress.

Kurt can’t die.

He looks away from Blaine and whatever he sees there in his eyes.

“Fascinating,” Sebastian breathes. “You know, I never quite believed the stories, but there’s no denying a truth like that.” The gun presses back to Blaine’s temple and he closes his eyes and feels himself shake violently.

He could die. He could die any second. He won’t stand up again the way Kurt did. His life could end, right at this moment.

“Now, let’s stop playing games, shall we? The police will be here soon and I’m sure you’d rather not be here when they arrive, hmm?” Sebastian’s voice is too pleasant as he threatens them. “Take me to the spring.”

Blaine freezes and his eyes snap open, only to see his own shock reflected back on four other faces.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Burt says plainly, and Sebastian laughs coldly. There’s a click as he cocks the hammer of the gun and presses it more firmly into Blaine’s skin.

“I’m not asking again.” All humor and amusement is gone from his voice, and Blaine can feel tears falling from his eyes. He can see Kurt, standing there and looking helpless, his own tears streaming down his face. He’s mouthing words, slow and deliberate, and Blaine tries to concentrate on them rather than the press of iron to his face.

 _You’ll be okay, it’s going to be okay, I promise we’ll get you out of this_.

“I have to ask,” Burt says carefully, eying the gun warily. “How exactly did you hear about us?”

“Can you not hear the dogs?” Sebastian asks, annoyed, but he sighs. “It’s a funny story, really. I have this old great aunt, a real droll woman, but she spent her younger years working in an insane asylum. She loved to tell me this story about this woman, you see. A woman who would babble on and on about this family in Ohio, people who talked about a magical spring that made them young forever.” He pauses. “What was the song my aunt would hum for me? Oh yes! I remember.”

And Sebastian starts to whistle. Blaine’s eyes widen as he recognizes the tune immediately, eyes locked on Kurt. It’s Kurt’s song, the one he whistles and hums every day. And then Blaine looks at Finn and sees all the pain written on his face.

Because only one other person ever knew of the Hummels’ secret.

But the whistle triggers something else in Blaine and he gasps.

“It’s you!” He cries in surprise.

“Oh, Mr. Anderson, lovely to see you recognize me at last.”

“Recognize?” Kurt repeats, brokenly.

“I knew it!” Finn yells, face turning angry. “I  _knew_  we couldn’t trust him!”

“Now, don’t go giving Mr. Anderson the credit. He’s just a convenient bartering tool in the wrong place at the wrong time. After all, you’re the one who led me back here to your little family,” Sebastian sneers in Finn’s direction. Finn balks, stumbling backwards and staring at Sebastian in horror. “Really, getting drunk and causing a scene in town. Did you think no one would notice you then?”

The Hummels don’t speak and Sebastian lets out another frustrated sigh. Blaine cries in pain as the gun is pressed even more forcefully into his skin.

“Stop it!” Kurt cries.

“Gladly. Just lead me to the spring. Or... You can all go to jail for Mr. Anderson’s murder.”

There’s a sharp gasp in Blaine’s ear, and then Sebastian is crumpling to the ground behind him, clutching at Blaine’s waistcoat. The gun falls to the ground and Kurt is quick to run forward and kick it away from Sebastian’s reach, but it proves unnecessary. When Blaine turns around, Sebastian is gasping and staring up at him with glazed over eyes.

And then his fingers loosen and his breathing stops and his eyes grow dim and Blaine sees Carole standing there, tears streaming down her face, holding a shovel tipped in blood.

“Carole,” Blaine says, quiet and shakily, and she’s dropping the shovel, hands pressed to her mouth as she shakes her head and stares at Sebastian’s lifeless body.

“Blaine.”

He looks up and Kurt is pulling him up and away from Sebastian, holding him close, petting at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, his face, and especially over the bruise forming on his temple.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re safe.”

Blaine clings to him, shaking, nearly choking on his tears.

“Kurt,” Burt says, and they both look at him. “You need to—”

“There they are!” An unknown voice calls from somewhere down the shore of the lake.

“Finn!” Burt calls, and he comes jogging over. “Take Kurt, you need to go.”

“No!” Kurt gasps, hands clinging to Blaine.

“But Burt, you and Ma—”

“You need to go, or none of us are going to get away. Kurt, go!”

“But Blaine—!”

Blaine feels Burt’s arm curl over his arm the same time that Finn grabs at Kurt. They’re broken apart and Finn is pushing Kurt up onto Hutch.

“I can’t just leave him!” Kurt insists, trying to climb off, but then Finn is behind him and they’re riding away.

“Kurt!”

No. No, it can’t end this way. This can’t be it.

“Blaine!”

And then they’re gone, too far away and disappearing into the cover of the trees. Blaine falls to his knees, staring after them, his throat thick as the tears continue to fall from his eyes. Burt’s no longer there restraining him, but Blaine knows that no matter how fast he could run, he’d never catch up. He looks around weakly and sees Carole, curled in on herself and sobbing, and he crawls towards her, dragging dirt and mud over the knees of his trousers.

“Carole,” he whispers and she looks up, her mouth moving as more sobs escape and he hugs her fiercely. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he hushes. “Thank you,” he says. “You saved my life, thank you, thank you.”

“Mr. Anderson!”

Blaine looks up to see Sheriff Pierce running towards him, and right behind him—

“Blaine!” His father rushes towards him and pulls him away from Carole. She’s silent now, tears still falling, and she doesn’t look at him as he’s wrapped in his father’s arms. Blaine can’t remember the last time his father hugged him this way, if his father has  _ever_  hugged him this way, and he can hardly force himself to hug back.

He sees Sheriff Pierce head into the cabin and can hear the other men seizing Carole. When Burt walks out of the house, hands up, smoke is trailing out of the door and windows, and Blaine feels his tears start fresh again.

He watches with glassy eyes as the Hummels’ cabin goes up in flames.


	8. Chapter 8

Blaine isn’t sure what it says about him as a son that he didn’t expect his coming home to be anything like this; he didn’t expect his father to hold him close the whole ride back to the house, or for his mother to cry, pet his hair, kiss his dirty cheek, and make no comment about the state of his appearance or his less than perfect posture. Blaine hadn’t expected his parents to  _miss_  him, and he had obviously been very wrong.

He’s grateful that they don’t seem to expect much back from him. He’s limp in their hugs and his face is blank—he can still see the flames when he closes his eyes, can still see Carole’s crying face and hear Kurt calling his name. It hurts, but he doesn’t cry anymore. He feels numb as his parents fuss over him and talk at him too quickly for him to understand.

Had his old life always happened at such a rapid pace?

It makes him feel tired, like he’s hiking through the forest for the first time again. He’s not used to it anymore and he longs for the quiet life he had learned in the shadows of the trees.

Their reunion, however, is short-lived. A man has died and two people have been arrested. Sheriff Pierce looms in the entryway to the parlor and twists his hat in his hands. He’s sandwiched between his parents as they ask him questions, but he looks no higher than the Sheriff’s shoulder and doesn’t speak.

“Do you know their names, Mr. Anderson?”

“Do you know why they took you?”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Did you see them kill Mr. Smythe?”

Blaine is asked a lot of questions, but he doesn’t shake or nod his head in response. His mother is fussing over him again, worried, and it isn’t long before she’s asking Sheriff Pierce to leave.

“He’s been through an ordeal, Sheriff. Maybe let him have a few days at home? Until he feels safe again?”

His parents don’t mind when Blaine goes to his room and stays there. He wonders what happened to them while he was gone. He wonders why his father isn’t working, and why his mother hasn’t pushed him into a new set of clothes and already stitched him right back into the life he’d led before. But he’s grateful for the solitude.

He bathes and washes weeks’ worth of dirt (how long had they said he been gone? seven weeks?) off his skin. He has night clothes and a whole wardrobe at his disposal, but he slips into breeches and a shirt because it’s what’s most familiar to him now. He rescues the handkerchief from his pocket, before the maids can take the clothes away (and they’re probably unsalvageable, so Blaine doubts he’ll ever see them again) and then curls up by his bedroom window.

With the soft fabric that still smells so vividly of Kurt, Blaine stares out at the forest and tries not to think about everything he has lost. 

 

 

Blaine doesn’t leave his room for days. His mother comes and sees him, kisses and hugs him far more often than she ever has, and his father never appears to leave the house. They talk to him, convince him to sit at the table for meals and even to have tea with them, but Blaine’s old life of structure and masks and too many social events doesn’t make a reappearance. For the most part, his parents leave him to his own devices.

He doesn’t try to go outside. He knows the moment he does, his illusion of freedom will be shattered.

It’s late and Blaine hasn’t managed more than a fitful sleep in the handful of nights since he’s returned home. Every night, he resigns himself to staring at the ceiling while he lies in bed (so much softer than the bench he’d become accustomed to) and waits until he’s too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer.

That’s when the tap at the window comes.

Blaine sits up abruptly, heart suddenly pounding in his chest as his head snaps towards the sound. He isn’t sure if it’s fear that makes his blood race through him, but it quickly shifts into overwhelmed disbelief as Blaine takes in the face outlined by the light of the moon beyond the glass—Kurt.

He doesn’t even give himself time to let it sink in—he doesn’t sit there and stare and hope it’s not a dream. Blaine throws his thick down comforter away from his body and hurries towards the window. Kurt ducks away for a moment as he swings it open, and then he’s there again, climbing over Blaine’s window sill.

Kurt hardly has his feet on the floor before Blaine is launching himself into Kurt’s arms. He scolds Blaine softly (“Please don’t push me out the window; I know I could just get up and do it all over again, but that trellis isn’t very easy to climb.”) but holds him back just as tightly, pressing soft kisses to the side of Blaine’s face and jaw.

Blaine feels the hot threat of tears again, after so many days where he’s felt like he may never cry again. Because Kurt is  _here_ , he isn’t gone, this isn’t the end.

“Shh, shh,” Kurt soothes him, and Blaine knows he’s right. The house is silent and everyone is asleep, but that doesn’t mean they can be loud. Blaine’s mother will surely hear him if he starts sobbing, especially given the nightmares he’s been having. Blaine nods, trying to calm his shuddering breaths, and once he gets over the initial shock, it’s surprisingly easy. Blaine had thought that he’d fall to pieces if he ever had the chance to feel Kurt’s arms around him again, but the touch calms him. Kurt keeps him together, instead.

“I thought...” Blaine whispers, and Kurt nods. The sentence goes unfinished, but they both know the end of it. “What happens now?” He asks, scared of the answer. Kurt pulls away, just enough so that he can see Blaine’s face again. His hand comes to curl around Blaine’s cheek and Blaine leans into the touch, feeling desperate even as he stares into the pools of Kurt’s eyes and feels the reassuring press of Kurt’s body.

“I don’t know,” Kurt admits. “Burt and Carole have been arrested, and Finn and I have been lying low.” His fingers scratch back and forth against Blaine’s hairline. “But we’ll figure something out soon.” He smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “We always do.”

Blaine nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do, his mind lost in the touch of Kurt’s fingers as they smooth over his temple. They’re silent, stuck staring into each other’s eyes, when suddenly, Blaine can’t take it anymore. He surges forward, pressing his mouth insistently to Kurt’s as his arms tighten their hold around Kurt’s back. Kurt makes a small sound of surprise against Blaine’s lips before he melts into the kiss, fingers tilting Blaine’s head until their mouths fit together perfectly.

So far, their kisses have hardly been more than mouths sealed together, lips sliding along lips until they were both breathless. There had been hints of  _more_ , promises of things that Blaine knew little about but longed for just the same, but nothing that either of them had dared to explore.

Now, their reservations are gone.

Blaine feels Kurt’s mouth part against his and a jolt shoots up his spine as Kurt’s tongue swipes along his lower lip. Kurt does it again and this time Blaine moans low in his throat, crowding closer to Kurt until they’re pressed together.

But then Kurt is pulling back, gasping.

“Blaine—”

Blaine tries to move in again but Kurt shakes his head.

“Blaine, the window.”

He notices, then, how Kurt’s pressed up against the sill and he pulls back, blushing in embarrassment. But Kurt catches his chin before he can dip away, kissing Blaine’s cheek with a soft brush of his lips.

“You’re adorable,” he whispers and Blaine’s blush only darkens.

“How long can you stay?” He asks, his voice surprisingly throaty, and Kurt pulls back, looking unsure.

“I... I was just coming to see you, I shouldn’t—”

“Kurt.” Blaine’s voice is quiet and desperate. “Would you... Would you stay with me?” Kurt  _has_ to stay. Blaine doesn’t know when they’ll ever have the chance to be together again and he wants to make use of every second Kurt is able to give him. Kurt hesitates, glancing at the window and then at the clock ticking away on Blaine’s bookshelf, before he acquiesces.

“I’ll need to leave before sunup,” he tells Blaine, and Blaine nods. That gives them a few hours, which is more than Blaine ever thought they’d have again.

He slips his hands into Kurt’s and takes a step back, leading them further into the room and away from the window.

“Lie with me?” Blaine asks, and Kurt smiles softly, nodding. He lets Blaine lead him to the bed before stopping to remove his shoes and overshirt. Kurt pauses then, fingers held over the laces of his trousers. He looks up at Blaine, who is in nothing but his own breeches and nightshirt, and Blaine nods with a small, embarrassed smile.

Kurt lays his clothing carefully over a chair and then Blaine pulls him down onto the bed; they come together immediately, arms wrapping around one another. Kurt seems to sink into the mattress, fingers petting at the down comforter, and he looks at Blaine in amusement.

“I don’t know how you ever slept on that bench if this is what you’re accustomed to,” Kurt says in wonder.

“I’d sleep on that bench for the rest of my life, if it meant having you there with me,” Blaine whispers, and Kurt turns to look at him in surprise. Blaine feels a flare of embarrassment once he realizes exactly what he’s said, but Kurt is dipping in and kissing him gently.

“I wouldn’t let you sleep on a bench that long.” Kurt’s eyes sparkle with amusement in the darkness and Blaine muffles his laughter in his pillow. It’s amazing how much he’s feeling after days of feeling absolutely nothing. It doesn’t seem like his whole world has crashed down around him, not now, not with Kurt right there in his arms.

“I was trying to be romantic,” Blaine grumbles and Kurt just smiles at him adoringly.

“You don’t need to try.” His fingers dance across Blaine’s face again and Blaine watches the way Kurt’s eyes trace the movement. Blaine reaches up and catches Kurt’s hand, surprising him, and then brings each fingertip to his mouth and kisses them gently.

“See?” Kurt gasps. “You don’t need to try at all.”

Blaine grins against Kurt’s skin, kissing his fingers one more time as they brush back and forth against his lips.

“I want to try,” he murmurs, gazing at Kurt through his eyelashes. “I want to try for  _you_.” Kurt’s lips part, but he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Blaine as if he’s at a complete loss for words. Blaine wonders if, in as long as Kurt has been alive, he’s ever been in love before—if someone else has loved Kurt before. The idea makes jealousy flare in his chest and he swallows it down; after all, Kurt deserves to be loved. Sweet, amazing, wonderful, funny, compassionate, beautiful Kurt.

Blaine thinks of all the times he’d told himself to not look. He thinks of all the times he’d admired the way Kurt’s eyelashes would fan against his cheeks or how much he loved the smile Kurt would get when Blaine was being particularly hopeless at something. And Blaine hates himself, just a little bit, for stopping. For not letting himself look and feel and realize what he hadn’t known then was possible.

Blaine had always dreamed of falling in love, but he’d never let himself think that he could fall in love with Kurt—that he was allowed to fall in love with Kurt.

And he hates himself because he did, anyway, and it took him so very long to understand it.

Blaine doesn’t know when he’ll see Kurt again. Everything they’d planned now seems impossible and the future is uncertain. He’s tired of wasting time.

Blaine reaches up his own hand to touch Kurt’s face, and Kurt’s fingers still against Blaine’s lips. He traces the smattering of freckles over Kurt’s cheek and the strong line of his jaw, dragging his thumb over Kurt’s lower lip and feeling him gasp against it. With their fingertips pressed to each other’s mouths, Blaine feels like they’re holding in each other’s secrets.

“I love you,” Blaine whispers fervently, eyes trained on Kurt’s and lips brushing against the pads of Kurt’s fingers. Kurt blinks quickly, breath escaping him rapid and warm against Blaine’s skin. Blaine wonders if maybe he should feel nervous, or scared, or however people tend to feel when they confess their feelings for someone.

But he feels full—brimming with a wonderful feeling and it tingles in his throat and he wants to say it again. He wants to say it hundreds, thousands, millions of times, until the words don’t even make sense anymore.

 _I love you. I love you. I love you_.

“I love you, too.” Kurt’s voice is hardly more than a sigh, but the room is silent apart from their breathing. Blaine twists Kurt’s hand and presses a kiss to the center of his palm, again and again, until he can’t stop himself from smiling anymore.

“I love you,” he says again, dragging his lips to the heel of Kurt’s hand. “I love you.” He kisses the inside of Kurt’s wrist and then feels Kurt’s other hand curl over his, where it’s still touching Kurt’s jaw. Blaine looks up to see Kurt grinning at him, smiling so wide his face can barely contain it, and Blaine smiles back. Kurt tugs on Blaine’s hand until he’s closer, wrapping Blaine’s arm around his neck and stopping only when their noses touch.

“And I love you,” Kurt breathes, and then brings their mouths together in another kiss.

Blaine moves into it hungrily, bringing his hands up to slide into Kurt’s hair. Kurt’s own hands move over Blaine’s shoulders and upper arms, feather-light touches that are teasing and fleeting and not enough. They’ve shared kisses in bed before, but they were always small—goodnight kisses, or good morning, or just to feel one another’s lips in the empty spaces of their quiet conversations.

Like everything else in Blaine’s life in the woods, their kisses had been slow and simple, like there was all the time in the world. But now, they kiss to the looming sound of the clock, ticking away every second they have left together.

There isn’t time to go slowly anymore.

Blaine remembers the tantalizing sensation of Kurt’s tongue brushing his lip, and is parting his mouth before he realizes it, sliding the tip of his tongue against the seam of Kurt’s mouth. He doesn’t expect Kurt to open pliantly against the touch, or for Kurt’s own tongue to flick questioningly against his. Blaine gasps, drawing back, Kurt’s eyes flickering open in response. They’re questioning and patient, but hungry in a way that Blaine has only seen glimpses of before—it always disappeared before he could dwell on it.

He focuses on trying to catch his breath and clear his head, but then Kurt is leaning in, a coquettish tilt to his head, and he licks, slow and deliberate, at the part of Blaine’s lips. He whimpers and his mouth falls open so that Kurt can lick his way inside.

Blaine doesn’t think about how he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He focuses instead on the way Kurt’s tongue wraps and strokes along his own, reveling in the touch and taste of it as Kurt explores his mouth. Kurt pulls away, catching Blaine’s lip with his teeth, only to press back in again, harder this time, coaxing Blaine’s tongue into his own mouth.

Kurt’s hand finds Blaine’s hip, curling tightly over the bone and then pushing until Blaine’s back is flat on the bed and Kurt is leaning over him, pressing Blaine’s head into the pillows with kiss after kiss after kiss. Blaine slides his hands up Kurt’s back, pulling him closer—needing him closer, wanting them pressed together from head to toe, but Kurt doesn’t concede. He drags his hand up Blaine’s chest, rucking his nightshirt up until Blaine can feel cool air against his stomach, and he shudders slightly at the chill. But the sensation is nothing compared to feeling Kurt’s fingers against his bared skin as they brush through the dark hair there.

He gasps and it slips into a moan as Kurt repeats the action, his lips drifting away from Blaine’s as they kiss at the corner of his mouth and along his jaw until Kurt’s breath is warm on Blaine’s ear. Kurt’s fingers curl into the fabric of Blaine’s shirt, pulling it up higher and revealing more of his abdomen.

“Can I?” He whispers against Blaine’s ear, and then his teeth are grazing the lobe before he sucks it into his mouth. Blaine’s eyes roll back into his head and it takes him a moment to understand exactly what Kurt is asking for. Instead, Blaine twists his head, letting Kurt take more of his ear between his lips, practically purring at how good it feels.

“Blaine.”

He whines as Kurt pulls back, blinking up at him in a daze and straining up to try and kiss him again. 

“Blaine,” Kurt says once more, a bit of amusement in his voice, but then his volume drops, low and secretive. “Can I remove your shirt?” The fabric has been pushed up far enough that Blaine can feel a brush of air against his ribs, and he imagines feeling Kurt’s fingers against even more of his skin, feeling Kurt’s body pressed against his. He blinks at Kurt, entranced by the dark shade of his eyes, and then moves his own hand to the hem of Kurt’s shirt.

“If I can remove yours.” His voice is gravelly, and unlike he’s ever heard it before. Kurt’s eyes seem to turn darker still and he nods, sitting back on his knees and waiting. Blaine scrambles to sit up and is surprised when Kurt reaches forward and pulls Blaine’s shirt over his head and off in one fluid, gentle motion. It isn’t the first time Kurt has seen his bare chest, but it is certainly the first time while they have been intimate. Blaine can see the way Kurt’s eyes rake over him and the predatory look there nearly makes Blaine whimper.

He grabs at Kurt’s shirt with much less finesse, but Kurt helps him, working him out of it carefully and then leaving both shirts discarded at the foot of the bed. Blaine’s mouth goes dry and his hands move forward without thinking, brushing along Kurt’s collarbones and then dragging down his chest. Kurt’s head falls back, exposing the long line of his throat, lips parting around a gasp as he lets Blaine’s hands explore him. Blaine wants to drink him in with sight, with touch, with  _taste_ —he wraps his hands around Kurt’s waist and pulls him closer, until Blaine’s mouth closes over the curve of Kurt’s neck.

Kurt lets out a soft cry that sparks the building heat in Blaine’s groin, causing him to slip his teeth past his lips and bite at Kurt’s skin before soothing over it with the flat of his tongue. Blaine licks along the reddening flesh, feeling intense satisfaction at every breathy whine that falls from Kurt’s mouth, before closing his mouth over the juncture again and sucking.

“ _Blaine_ ,” Kurt gasps, hands grabbing at Blaine’s shoulders, and Blaine groans at the way Kurt’s fingers dig insistently into his skin. He sucks more kisses along Kurt’s throat, moving up slowly towards his jawline and leaving a trail of darkened marks in his wake. Just as Blaine is beginning to feel in control of the situation, Kurt growls low in his throat; he swings his leg over Blaine’s hips, straddling him, and then he pushes back against Blaine’s shoulders. The force is enough that Blaine’s mouth comes off Kurt’s neck with a loud  _pop_ , which would be funny if Kurt wasn’t pressing Blaine down into the bed and thrusting his tongue into Blaine’s mouth.

Kurt’s fingers twist into Blaine’s curls again, tugging Blaine’s head back so he can deepen the kiss further. Blaine’s back arches up as Kurt’s chest brushes against his, desperate for more contact; he slides the palms of his hands from Kurt’s shoulders to the small of his back, his thumbs tracing the line of Kurt’s spine until they reach the top of his breeches. His fingers stroke back and forth and Blaine takes a chance, dipping them slightly beneath the fabric. Kurt thrusts down immediately, bringing their groins together and they both moan as Kurt’s hardness slides against Blaine’s.

They pull apart then, breathing heavily. Kurt looks completely disheveled, lips puffy and dark from kissing, and his eyes heavy-lidded and black; Blaine can still see the marks along the pale skin of Kurt’s throat. Kurt licks his lips and stares down at Blaine, chest heaving, pressing their skin together with every inhale, and then he very deliberately rolls their hips together again.

Blaine nearly chokes around his own moan, his hips jerking at the contact, and he looks up at Kurt with a slackened mouth and wonder in his eyes. Kurt pets at Blaine’s temples with his thumbs, but seems to be waiting for something. Blaine wishes Kurt would say what it was, because at this point, he’s willing to give him absolutely anything. Kurt kisses languidly along his jaw, simply skimming his lips across Blaine’s skin, and Blaine whimpers impatiently in response.

He wants to feel Kurt against him and the rush of pleasure that courses through him at the touch. Blaine tries desperately to catch Kurt’s lips, but Kurt evades him easily. Blaine pants as Kurt’s kisses go from light brushes to open-mouthed drags until he’s taking Blaine’s ear between his teeth and working it back and forth.

Blaine lets out a frustrated groan, slipping his hands lower until he’s cupping Kurt’s backside and forcing their cocks to brush together again. Kurt’s moan is loud right beside his ear, but then he’s kissing Blaine again, sucking his tongue into his mouth. Blaine’s fingers dig deeply into Kurt through his breeches, pulling him down until they’re rolling their hips in an imperfect rhythm. Their kisses dissolve into pants against each other’s lips, and Blaine can feel the sweat collecting on the back of his neck and at the small of his back.

Kurt shifts the angle of his hips and suddenly it’s  _more_ , the friction so intense that Blaine can’t help but moan wantonly. His thrusts become faster, hands disappearing from Blaine’s hair only to grip the pillows right beside his head. Blaine’s babbling, nonsense intermixed with words like  _Kurt_  and  _love you, ugh, love you so much_. He can hardly see Kurt through his heavy-lidded eyes, just enough to tell that his mouth is hanging open, letting out fantastic breathy moans that shoot straight to Blaine’s cock and are coming with more and more frequency.

Blaine feels like there’s so much more this could be—more skin and touch and exploration. And yet he feels like a balloon ready to pop, his orgasm coiling tightly inside of him and his cock aching for release. But it’s too soon, he still wants for  _more_ , his babbling becoming a string of  _please-yes-Kurt-please_. Blaine drags his hands up, over the curve of Kurt’s bottom, only to boldly push them back beneath the top of his breeches to curl and grab at the supple muscle. Kurt lets out a cry at the touch and he begins moving against Blaine frantically. Blaine bucks up to meet him, words clogging in his throat until his mouth is open in a long, soundless scream and he’s coming, body curling inward until his forehead is pressing against Kurt’s shoulder.

He nearly lets his body go limp when he feels Kurt still moving against him, his moans becoming louder and higher pitched as he nears his own orgasm. Blaine moves to catch Kurt’s mouth in a kiss, swallowing the sounds and feeling Kurt’s entire body shudder against him and then go still, before they collapse onto the bed.

Blaine feels absolutely boneless and he’s still trying to catch his breath; he can feel Kurt gasping against the skin of his neck and starts to smile, sliding his hands to Kurt’s hips and splaying his fingers possessively across them. His thumbs move back and forth over the prominent jut of Kurt’s hip bones and he turns his face to the side, nuzzling his nose into side of Kurt’s cheek.

He can feel Kurt’s smile before he sees it—Kurt sleepily turns his head, his eyes sparkling as he leans in to rub the tip of his nose against Blaine’s once. Blaine closes his eyes and enjoys the weight of Kurt’s body rested fully on top of his, fingers idly playing with the curls at the base of his neck, and the way Kurt leans forward to brush his eyelashes against Blaine’s jaw.

Blaine wonders if he’ll ever be able to stop smiling.

His eyes open as Kurt shifts slightly on top of him, and Blaine tries not to think about the already incredibly uncomfortable tackiness in his breeches; he’s too comfortable to think about moving. Kurt’s fingers drift over his shoulder and collarbone until he’s pressing his palm to Blaine’s chest, right above his heart.

“Seduction had not been my intention tonight,” Kurt whispers, and his voice is pitched so much lower than Blaine is used to hearing it. The sound spikes through him and he fights the urge to groan—it’s far too soon for him to become aroused again.

Blaine stares at Kurt’s fingers, where they have begun to move up and down against his skin, and smiles.

“Then I’m glad your intentions went awry,” Blaine hums and he feels Kurt’s body shake with quiet laughter. “I’d never imagined how two men might be intimate together,” he muses into the darkness, and Kurt’s eyebrows lift on his forehead in surprise.

“Oh, there are far more ways,” Kurt murmurs, and Blaine can’t help but wonder how he knows; he tries to swallow the sudden rush of jealousy he feels. Kurt leans in and brushes their lips together, not moving away so that Blaine can feel his smile and the way his mouth moves when he speaks. “I hope I have the opportunity to teach you.”

Blaine swallows, remembering every spark of feeling, every touch, every shiver of pleasure, and he lets out a shaky breath as a response—he certainly hopes so, too. 

Kurt doesn’t move away, letting their lips rest together even as Blaine’s eyes grow heavy with sleep. But it’s still dark and there are hours until dawn; he needs to spend them with Kurt. Kurt, who threads his fingers through Blaine’s hair in a way that makes him so sleepy, humming his song, soft and lilting.

“I love you,” Blaine says again, and he feels Kurt smile.

“I love you, too, Blaine Anderson.” Every word catches their lips together like precious, accidental kisses. “Sleep, my love.” Kurt kisses him, soft and lingering. “Sleep.”

And Blaine does.

He wakes up with sunlight warming his face and his bed empty, save for him. There’s no warm body to hold in his arms, no kisses good morning, and no storm- colored eyes that look at him with so much love that Blaine can hardly fathom it. He’s alone and it makes him ache—the big hole losing Kurt and his family had created had been so easily filled, as if it had never existed in the first place, and now the space feels even emptier than before.

He’s uncomfortable in his breeches, memories of his night with Kurt filling his sleep-addled mind. Blaine had imagined what it would be like to touch all the curves of Kurt’s body that he had admired before, wondered what he would taste like along his jaw and neck. He had never thought, however, that he would experience these things so soon. He and Kurt had been  _intimate_  and the thought alone makes Blaine’s breath catch.

But there had been so much more to their night together, and Blaine remembers it easily the more he wakes up. He remembers the quiet, slow kisses, and the gentle, easy touches, and, more than anything, the swell of emotion inside of him when he’d confessed his love.

And the way Kurt had returned it.

Even alone, it’s hard for Blaine not to smile into his pillow, closing his eyes and nearly groaning when he can still smell Kurt in the fabric. He pretends that Kurt is still there; he pretends he’s back in the cabin, in the woods (albeit in a much comfier bed), and that Kurt isn’t far away, already kneading the dough for bread and singing softly to keep from waking him up. The picture makes him ache and he opens his eyes very reluctantly.

To his surprise, there’s a folded piece of paper on the empty pillow beside him. It’s Blaine’s own stationery, the one he keeps on his desk in the corner of the room, and when he sits up, he sees his name penned on the front in beautiful, curling letters. He’s never seen Kurt’s handwriting before, but he knows that it couldn’t be from anyone else.

He picks it up reverently, fingers careful on the silky texture of the paper. Blaine doesn’t know what he expects it to say and his heart pounds anxiously at the thought.

So he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens it.

There’s no letter. There’s nothing poetic. There’s no goodbye or dismissal.

Rather, in Kurt’s elegant penmanship, it says,

  
_I love you._

_-K_

Blaine closes his eyes again and presses the piece of paper to his heart.

 

 

He stays up late the next night, just in case. After the house quiets, he turns on his lamp, opens his window, and settles into the chair beside it with his well-read copy of  _Oliver Twist_. There’s nothing saying that Kurt will return, but Blaine can’t stop the hope that swells in his chest, that things might be okay. Kurt and Finn will find a way to free Burt and Carole and they’ll leave—go to that other house in the woods somewhere, the one that Kurt had been telling him about. And then Kurt could visit, traveling in the cover of darkness and climbing into Blaine’s room after all the lights have gone out. It isn’t the perfect situation, but if it means he’ll get to see Kurt, he’ll gladly take it.

“You’re waiting for me.”

Blaine looks up, startled, but his face immediately splits into a grin as he sees Kurt straddling the window sill. He drops the book into his chair and immediately pulls Kurt towards him, one hand sliding beneath Kurt’s shirt to touch the skin of his back while the other curves around the back of his neck, guiding their mouths together. Blaine doesn’t hesitate, swiping his tongue against the seam of Kurt’s lips until they part and Blaine can explore the inside of his mouth.

Kurt’s arms twist around Blaine’s neck, fingers digging tightly into the back of his hair. He lets Blaine direct the kiss, moaning softly when Blaine starts to suck on his tongue.

When they do break apart, Blaine immediately begins to suck kisses along Kurt’s jaw, and Kurt lets out a surprised, breathy laugh.

“Hello to you, too.”

Blaine draws back, surprised and a bit embarrassed, as he realizes how he had attacked Kurt at the first opportunity. He meets Kurt’s eyes, prepared to sheepishly apologize, when he notices something off; there’s still that teasing sparkle, but it’s layered over something far worse.

“Hello,” Blaine finally says, his eyes searching Kurt’s insistently. “Kurt...” Blaine’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Kurt’s mouth parts as if he plans to speak, and then closes again. He wraps his arms more tightly around Blaine’s neck until his head is tucked beneath Blaine’s chin and he’s hugging Blaine tightly. Blaine hugs him back, hand stroking up and down Kurt’s spine beneath his shirt, and he waits.

“It’s Carole,” Kurt finally says, and Blaine stills. “They’ve... They’re sending her to the gallows, Blaine.” Neither of them says anything, and then Kurt lifts his head. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears when they meet Blaine’s. “At dawn, they’ll hang her and... And she can’t go, Blaine. She  _can’t_ ,” Kurt chokes out. “She  _can’t die_. If she goes, they’ll... They’ll know and I don’t...”

“Shh, shh...” Blaine tucks Kurt’s face into the side of his neck again, petting his hair and rocking him gently back and forth. Finn and Kurt hadn’t thought of something fast enough. In a few hours, all of Lima will know the Hummels’ secret. Blaine doesn’t know what that means except danger for all four of them, for  _Kurt_ , and the idea forms a solid stone of cold dread in his stomach. “We’ll think of something,” he whispers, but Kurt just shakes his head.

“They have them locked up, Blaine. Locked up and—and guarded. I don’t—who knows what they’ll do to us then, what they’ll do to Carole and to... To Pa.” His voice cracks again and his body shakes, so Blaine continues to rock him back and forth, heart breaking at the sound of Kurt’s quiet sobs.

“I had to see you again,” Kurt whispers. “Had to see you one last time before—”

Blaine jerks back and does what Kurt had done to him not so many days before; he grabs Kurt by the chin and forces him to meet his eyes. Kurt falls silent and Blaine watches sadly as tears spill down his cheeks.

“This isn’t the last time, Kurt Hummel, and don’t you dare say such a thing.” Blaine couldn’t stand it if it were true. “We’ll figure this out. We  _will_. And you and Burt and Finn and Carole, you’ll all be safe.” He brushes away the tears. “I promise. You’re my family, and I’ll keep you safe.”

Kurt’s breath catches and then he pushes forward and kisses Blaine. It’s sloppy and salty and desperate, but Blaine kisses him back, still running a hand up and down the planes of Kurt’s back.

“I love you,” Kurt whispers against his lips, and Blaine kisses him again for good measure.

“I love  _you_ ,” he replies with a smile. Kurt smile back, shaking his head, and Blaine starts to see a bit of the sparkle he loves so much return to Kurt’s eyes. They stand there in the silence of Blaine’s bedroom and hold each other, trying hard not to think about what the dawn will bring them this time.

“I’m scared,” Kurt admits, and Blaine gives a small nod before kissing his temple.

“I know.” Blaine stares out the window behind Kurt and furrows his eyebrows. “But we’ll think of something.”

They have to.

 

 

“Sheriff!” Blaine cries desperately as he bursts into the station. It’s clear that he’s only just managed to pull on his trousers, his hair disheveled and his shirt untucked, and he’s out of breath. But when he looks at the main desk, it isn’t Sheriff Pierce sitting there, but Deputy Schuester. He jolts, as if Blaine’s arrival woke him, sitting up in alarm.

“Mr. Anderson.” He takes in Blaine’s appearance and then he stands, immediately walking around the desk to Blaine, who nearly falls shakily into his arms. “Son, what is it? What’s wrong? You shouldn’t be out here this time of night, it’s dangerous.”

Blaine just shakes his head from side-to-side, still trying desperately to breathe.

“It—someone tried to get into our house!” He tells the Deputy after a moment. “I was up reading, I’ve had—had trouble sleeping, so many nightmares, Deputy.” The Deputy looks at him with worry, nodding his head. “And there was a loud crash downstairs—a window breaking. I got—got scared, so scared, I thought it was the other men, the other kidnappers, the ones who got away, so I-I ran, Deputy, I ran and came here, I didn’t—didn’t feel safe there, I didn’t—”

“Calm down now,” the Deputy says, guiding Blaine into a chair to sit down. “You’ll be safe here, all right?” Blaine nods shakily and the Deputy moves to take his gun down from the wall. “What about your parents, boy? They get away all right?”

Blaine’s face drains of color and he begins shaking his head, grabbing at his hair and breathing heavily.

“N-no, I just—I was so scared, I just ran! I just ran, I didn’t—didn’t think, I didn’t—”

The Deputy looks hesitant, casting a look towards the door that leads to the cells, and then nods to himself.

“Listen, Mr. Anderson. I’ll go and check on your parents, make sure the house is safe. I’ll lock up the doors and you’ll be safe here, all right?”

Blaine nods but doesn’t say anything, watching as the Deputy takes the ring of keys and clips it to his belt before he leaves the station. As soon as the door is closed and locked, he hurries toward it, watching through the window as the Deputy rushes on foot as fast as he can in the direction of the Anderson house—which happens to be on the far side of town. They had been lucky that the Deputy had foregone his horse that night.

Once he’s out of sight, it isn’t long before Kurt and Finn are riding up to the front of the station in the horse and cart. Blaine unbolts the door from the inside and lets Kurt in, following him further into the jail.

“Kurt?” Burt’s moving to the bars as they approach and Carole looks up from where she’s curled on the bench at the back of the cell.

“The Deputy took the keys,” Blaine suddenly says, feeling like he failed; how are they supposed to free them without keys?

“A hundred and four and you don’t think I can pick a jailer’s lock?” Kurt teases, pulling something thin and metallic from his pocket and jamming it into the lock. Blaine stares, gaping, when the door swings open and Kurt is immediately rushing into his father’s arms.

“That’s my boy,” Burt mumbles into Kurt’s hair, but Kurt shakes his head.

“No.” He looks over at Blaine and smiles again. “That’s Blaine.”

Blaine feels his heart ache when Burt smiles at him, like he’s  _proud_  of Blaine, and then the moment passes. He moves past them and helps Carole up, hugging her tightly when she falls into his arms, leading her out of the cell as Kurt secures the jail door shut behind them. It’s like they’d never even been there.

“We have to hurry,” Blaine explains in a rush as they move out to where Finn is waiting with the cart. “I don’t know how long Deputy Schuester will be gone, and you need to be far away from here by the time he gets back.”

Kurt is helping Carole up onto the cart and Burt turns to Blaine, holding out his hand. Blaine takes it, surprised.

“You’re a good man, Blaine.” Burt’s voice is hard and honest and it rocks Blaine to his core. “Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise, you hear me?” He pulls Blaine forward suddenly and hugs him. “Me and my family will never be able to thank you for this, and I’ll never be able to thank you for what you’ve given Kurt.”

Blaine’s eyes are wet when they pull away, Burt giving him one more clap on the shoulder before he goes to take the reins from Finn.

It’s just him and Kurt then, standing at the doorstep of the Sheriff’s station. Blaine knows that, this time, this is really it. Kurt seems to know, too, and he comes forward and takes Blaine’s hands in his.

“Come with us?” He asks, shakily, and Blaine feels like he’s taken a punch to the gut.

 _Yes_ , his mind insists.  _Yes, of course._  It’s all Blaine’s wanted. To be with Kurt and his family, for as long as they’ll have him—maybe even forever. But he remembers the men searching the woods and his parents’ watchful eyes and what Sebastian had said about him—he’s a convenient bartering tool. He can’t risk the Hummels’ safety again because of his selfishness.

Even without Burt’s disapproving stare, Blaine knows he can’t go with them, and fights the horrible twist in his stomach and the tightening in his throat. He shakes his head. 

“Blaine—” Kurt’s voice cracks and Blaine pulls him close, shushing him and shaking his head.

“I want to, Kurt. Of course I want to.” He pets at Kurt’s hair, his neck, his shoulders, any part of him he can touch. “But if I’m with you, my family will never stop hunting you. They’ll keep looking for me and I can’t... I can’t put you in that kind of danger.”

Kurt pulls back and looks at him, face torn in pain.

“I can’t go without you,” Kurt insists, his voice brimming with sadness. Blaine opens his mouth to say something and chokes on his own grief, stroking down Kurt’s face instead and smiling, tight-lipped.

“You have to.” And it kills every single part of Blaine to say it. Kurt stares at him, searching his face for any sign of Blaine changing his mind, but Blaine fights to hold his ground. He loves Kurt, he will  _always_  love Kurt.

But he can’t take what he wants. Not this time.

“Blaine,” Kurt says suddenly, very seriously, his eyes bright. He takes Blaine’s hands and holds them very tightly, pressed together between his own. “Remember what I told you about the spring?” Kurt asks and Blaine nods—of course he remembers, how could he forget. “I...” Kurt licks his lips, closes his eyes for a moment, and then continues. “Go to the spring, Blaine. Drink the water.”

Blaine’s throat constricts tightly and he loses so much air, so quickly, that he sways slightly on his feet. But Kurt keeps him up—Kurt will never let him fall.

“Drink the water, and I’ll come back for you as soon as it’s safe.” He stares at Blaine, pleadingly.

“You swear you’ll come back?” Blaine chokes out, and Kurt nods.

“We still have to go to Paris, don’t we?” Kurt smiles and it wobbles on his lips, and Blaine laughs; it breaks him, and whatever had been holding his tears in disappears. “We’re going to climb the real Eiffel Tower, remember?”

“Sixteen hundred and fifty two steps to the top,” Blaine whispers, and Kurt presses forward and kisses him.

“Exactly.”

“Kurt,” Burt barks sharply, and Kurt looks over his shoulder at his family, hands tightening around Blaine’s.

“Promise me something?” Kurt says quietly, and Blaine holds his breath, hesitant to agree immediately when he’s nearly falling apart trying to stand his ground. “Until we’re together again... Wake up with the dawn.” Kurt’s smile cracks and Blaine nods repeatedly, eyes blurring. Kurt had taught him to wake up with the dawn, to  _live_ , and Blaine could keep that promise. It would give him something to hold onto.

“I love you,” Blaine says, voice cracked and quiet and he’s surprised he manages to say anything at all. Kurt moves forward, their hands caught between their bodies, and kisses him. Kisses him where anyone could look out their window and see, and maybe Blaine should be terrified, but it’s hard to think of anything but the press of Kurt’s lips, the slide of his tongue, the taste of his mouth.

Blaine might never kiss Kurt Hummel again and he needs to remember it for the rest of his life.

When they pull apart, Kurt presses their cheeks together. Blaine keeps his eyes closed and wishes that this didn’t feel like the end of everything.

“Blaine Anderson,” Kurt whispers, his words a tickling breath against Blaine’s ear, “I will love you until the day I die.”

And then he’s gone, slipping out of Blaine’s arms. Blaine’s eyes slide open but he can hardly see through his tears as Kurt jumps into the cart and it pulls immediately into action. He tries to blink them back, to see Kurt as he disappears, but he can hardly keep himself upright.

He collapses to his knees, choking out sob after sob after sob. He watches through blurry vision as the cart, and the man he loves, disappear into the dark cover of night.

 

 

There’s talk for months afterwards of the vanishing prisoners. The Deputy nearly loses his job and no one ever thinks that Blaine is involved—after all, they’d been his kidnappers. Blaine doesn’t stay in his room all day anymore. At night, he closes the window, shuts the curtains, and doesn’t look for a face beyond the glass that he knows he won’t see.

Summer fades and the forest is gold and red when his parents finally loosen the invisible chain around Blaine’s neck. After he comes back from the forest the first few times, they stop worrying about his long walks through it and what might possibly happen to him.

He revisits their places. He climbs to the top of the Eiffel Tower and admires the woods in their fall splendor. He watches the waterfall turn to ice in the winter, beautiful and dusted with untouched snow, and he feels silly as he drags a stick through it and writes ‘K + B’ inside the shape of a heart.

But it’s summer again before Blaine finally goes to the spring. It’s almost a year to the day since he first went there, and it’s been a long time since he last saw Kurt and the other Hummels. He keeps the handkerchief, long since devoid of Kurt’s scent, tucked into his breast pocket, along with the note that Kurt had left him so many months ago. He goes to the Hummels’ old cabin just once; the earth and trees are charred and nothing remains of the cabin but ash. Their ornamented tree still stands tall; it’s scorched up one side, but sparkles in the sunlight with it’s countless charms swinging in the wind. 

The spring is just as Blaine remembers it—unchanged, except there is no beautiful boy waiting for him when he breaks through the treeline and into the clearing. In the year since his short time with the Hummels, since Blaine had learned what truly living was, and fell in love the way people only ever do in stories, he has thought frequently about the spring and what Kurt had asked of him. He remembers that first day, how he’d nearly gone straight to the spring—but his parents had stopped him, and continued to stop him, hesitant to let him out of their sight, and soon the impulsiveness had passed.

Then, Blaine had had to really think about it.

Immortality.

It had never been something Blaine had thought about until the day Kurt had looked him in the eyes, held his hands, and told him their story. Even after that, it wasn’t something he truly believed until he saw Kurt take a bullet to the stomach and then stand up moments later.

Neither of his choices are easy.

Drinking from the spring means he’ll stop. Time will continue to flow around him, but it will mean nothing to Blaine, not anymore. Will years become as insignificant as months? Weeks? Minutes? He’ll have endless time, to go and do and be anything and everything he’s always dreamed.

Immortality for him isn’t about fearing old age, or sickness, or even death. Death is a part of life and, while Blaine certainly doesn’t want to die right now, he knows that one day he’ll accept death. Blaine knows he’ll eventually die, and it doesn’t frighten him as much as it once did.

But immortality means happiness. Immortality means the Hummels, who carved a space for Blaine in their family—a space just for him, that he filled perfectly. He wouldn’t be alone in his immortality—from what Blaine has learned, the world seems to view immortality as lonely, but Blaine would be in the best company he’s ever known. The Hummels taught him what truly living was, even if Burt had tried to convince him otherwise. They might go about life differently than the rest of the world, but it’s still more of a life than Blaine has ever known, even now.

And, of course, immortality means Kurt. The thought of him still makes Blaine’s chest tighten—he still aches with how badly he misses and longs for Kurt. Immortality means Kurt for the rest of forever, fingers laced and hearts bared and Blaine  _loves_  him, loves him more and more with every breath he takes, even if Kurt is somewhere far beyond Blaine’s physical reach. Blaine knows it would be stupid, picking everlasting life at the whims of his heart, but a part of him longs to. A part of him yearns to walk hand-in-hand with Kurt until the end of time.

Then, there are the things that Blaine would lose.

He would lose everything he knows. He’d watch the world and time he’s grown up in fall away and change, watch it evolve into something new and strange and not necessarily better. He’d lose all the people who know his name, every friend and acquaintance he’s made, and he’d lose his family.

Blaine and his parents had never been close and, while things have certainly improved in the last year, there’s a gap between them that can never be mended. But to never see them again? To watch from afar as they grow old and die while he continues to be young? While he continues to live?

It’s always the thing that stops him. It’s always the reason he hesitates. Blaine may have found true happiness with the Hummels, but he still loves his parents.

He argues,  _they’ll die before you do anyway._

He argues,  _no parents should have to mourn the fake death of their son_.

He argues,  _I could die any day, from disease or war, and they’d still be mourning. They’d still be mourning and I would be dead._

Then there’s the last thing that stops him. He’s reminded of it every time his mother asks him about Miss Berry or any of the other girls in town. He’s reminded of it at night, when his hand slips beneath the fabric of his breeches and he imagines broad shoulders, and strong hands, and sparkling blue eyes. He’s getting older, and soon, his parents will be pressing him to “pick a nice girl and settle down.” He’ll be expected to have children.

How does he smile and woo and court a girl, knowing the entire time it’s a lie?

Blaine knows what love is; can he honestly steal away some girl’s chance at truly finding it simply to please his parents? To hide his secret?

_What will your parents do when they find out what you are?_

He tries not to think about it. Blaine fears the answer—Kurt would not have been so terrified about his own secret, so desperate for a place to belong, if acceptance was an easy thing to find. Blaine knows he has to conceal it; what other choice does he have?

Kurt has time. He has time to look for a place in the world where he isn’t forced to hide away. In fact, Kurt has  _time_ —he has all of the future spread before him, full of possibilities of acceptance, somewhere, someday. The opportunity to be who he is, without masks, and with the ability to love someone in the light of day without feeling afraid.

Blaine sits down in the soft, lush grass at the base of the tree. He stares at the H carved into the wood and remembers the beautiful things Kurt could create with his fingers—he smiles, sadly.

He’s never seen the spring up close. It’s a little pool in the base of the tree, something that is strange enough in itself, even without knowing what the water can do. Blaine doesn’t know what he expected, but the water looks absolutely normal; there are no strange colors or shimmers of magic blinking in it. In appearance alone, it’s just water.

Blaine dips his fingers in—it’s incredibly cold and it makes him suddenly think about the dryness in his throat and how thirsty he is. Is that the magic? Or Blaine’s subconscious trying to tell him what his decision is when he’s still so incredibly unsure?

His fingers dance across the surface of the water and he stares at the ripples that form.

Burt Hummel had told him not to fear death, but to fear the unlived life.

But the question is, which life is it that Blaine Anderson wants to live?


	9. Epilogue

**SUMMER. LIMA, OHIO. 2012**

Ohio is uncomfortably hot in the summer. It always has been, but it seems to get worse with each passing year. Kurt blames industrialization and cars and the depletion of the ozone layer, the same way everyone else does, although he has a bit more knowledge about how things once were than most people.

He doesn’t return to Ohio often; despite it being his home for many years, most of the memories it holds are bitter and full of sorrow.

Most, but not all.

He drives through the town, trying not to categorize all the things that have changed since his last visit—how long has it been now? Eighty-three years? He breathes out long and slow through his mouth. Eighty-three years since the funeral.

He turns off a road that had once been dirt but has been paved smooth, passing houses that advertise themselves as being nearly a hundred years old—but Kurt knows better than that. He pulls up to the curb outside of the only house that does fit the bill, staring through the iron gates to its familiar silhouette. He doesn’t know who lives in the Andersons’ house now, but it’s certainly not the family he knew.

The car idles for a moment and then Kurt pulls away again, driving down miles of road that hadn’t existed until fairly recently. Now the woods that had once belonged to the Andersons host a neighborhood of grand houses, all trying to mimic Michael Anderson’s original design but falling comically short. Kurt smiles wryly and drives until the road ends, pulling his SUV onto the dirt and killing the engine.

He walks from that point on, through the trees that aren’t as familiar to him as they had been nearly a hundred years ago. Kurt scrunches his nose at the mud that clings to his boots, but he’d worn his least expensive, while still durable, pair for just this reason. The world has changed around Kurt Hummel and he, in turn, has changed. He’s still the same man, of course, beneath his unaging skin, although now that clothes come easily and showers aren’t a luxury, he’s a bit more conscious of his own hygiene and appearance.

At least he never has to worry about wrinkles.

Even if the freckles never fade, either.

The path is worn into the very soles of his feet and he makes his way to the spring easily. It’s still so far into the woods and Kurt can’t help but wonder if magic protects it somehow. If the magic led him and his family to it. If it’s the magic that led Blaine to him on that day not so unlike this one, many years ago.

One thing is different, however, and Kurt carefully folds himself to his knees in the grass and inspects the gravestone situated at the base of the tree. He runs his fingertips over its surface and traces the words in something akin to wonderment.

BLAINE M. ANDERSON  
SEPTEMBER 27, 1897 - MAY 18, 1920  
LOVING SON & FRIEND

Wildflowers grow along the edges and Kurt can’t help but smile at that, reaching forward to brush his fingers against the petal of a daisy. He deliberates for a moment before picking it, slipping it into the breast pocket of his shirt. He stands, brushing off his knees, and gives the gravestone one more look before he continues to walk through the forest.

It’s rather amazing, how much of it still goes untouched, although there are more sounds in the air now. He can hear the far-off sounds of a highway and children laughing and screaming. Rather than growing larger, the world just seems to get smaller and smaller with each passing year. Kurt is finding that there aren’t places that still lurk undiscovered by humankind, and the land is losing its secrets and its magic because of it. It makes him sad, sometimes, to think about all the things the world has lost.

But it’s easier, too, when he remembers all of the things it’s gained. That’s always enough to sweeten the bitterness to the almost perfect point of balance.

His “Eiffel Tower” still stands just as tall, the stone worn smoother with weather and the path to the top made easier after countless climbers and hikers have discovered it. He presses his hand against the warmth of the rock and smiles; it’s not as glorious as the real Eiffel Tower, which means just as much (if not more) to Kurt now. But it’s still his, and it’s still special.

He still loathes the idea of having to climb it in jeans, though.

It’s too hot and he’s not even halfway to the top before he’s uncomfortable and thank  _god_  he’d foregone the vest because he can only imagine the sweat stain forming at the small of his back. The sweat does absolutely nothing for his hair, and he feels unpleasantly and horribly sticky. It’s not that the climb is hard (he’s done it hundreds of times, after all) or that he doesn’t find it exhilarating and fun (he’s making a climb most people don’t do without equipment and it makes him feel so young again), it’s just that it’s too hot and his clothes simply don’t breathe the way they did ninety-eight years ago.

When he reaches the top, he’s grateful for the breeze that greets him and tries to pull his hair from its style. His legs and arms burn with exertion and  _fuck_ , he’s thirsty, but he’s there—he made it.

And he’s not alone.

Blaine turns, his silhouette outlined by the endless blue sky, and smiles at Kurt. 

“Oh, there you are.”

Kurt glares at him, moving forward and stretching his arms, already feeling his annoyance build at Blaine and his sensibility to wear climbing-appropriate clothing (yet, somehow still managing a bow tie). But it breaks the moment Blaine presses a cold water bottle into his hands.

“I love you,” he groans, and Blaine kisses his cheek. “Not you, Blaine. The water.”

“Mmm,” Blaine hums, but he’s still grinning. “I know. I can’t kiss you on the cheek if I want to?”

Kurt’s gaze softens and he smiles around the opening of the bottle.

“You can.” Kurt twists the lid back on and then sets the water by his feet. “But I don’t see why you had to ask me to come all the way up here for a kiss on the cheek.” He crosses his arms and looks at Blaine expectantly, and Blaine just smiles.

“We’re never in Ohio,” he points out—it’s true. Ever since Blaine’s mother had passed away, too young and too soon after Blaine’s own “death,” they’d avoided the state. It became clear, very quickly, that there were places they were far more welcome and far less likely to be seen as not quite right (in more ways than one). “I thought it’d be nice to go to the place you took me on our first date.”

Kurt snorts.

“I wouldn’t call waking you up at dawn and dragging you rock climbing a date, but I suppose we have done stranger things.”

Blaine pulls Kurt’s hands away from him, lacing their fingers and walking them closer to the edge.

“I’m surprised you didn’t pick the waterfall,” Kurt muses. “Considering that’s where we had our first kiss.” Blaine’s face seems to light up at the reminder, as if he can’t believe that Kurt would remember such a thing. But of course Kurt remembers—he’s just past two hundred, but that doesn’t mean that those two months of time have faded in his memory, even with more memories to cherish now—he’s spent nearly half his life with Blaine.

“That had been the original plan, but it’s become a pretty popular swimming spot and I figured we would rather not be surrounded by dozens of screaming children.” Blaine sets his mouth into a line and Kurt nods. “Is that why it took you so long? Did you mishear “Eiffel Tower” as “waterfall” and end up in the wrong place?” Blaine teases, and Kurt scrunches his face at him defiantly.

“No, I...” He stops, blinking. “I went to visit your grave.” Kurt knows Blaine thinks it’s strange—and has thought so ever since Kurt first insisted they visit, their first time back in Ohio. He’d thought it was morbid, but Kurt explained that it helped to remind him of what he has, and what he could have lost.

“Ah.” Blaine doesn’t like to talk about it. No matter how much time has passed, those first ten years were the hardest and Kurt does his best not to make Blaine think of them. The gravestone is a constant reminder of the choice Blaine made, and what he gave up to make it. “How did that go?” His voice is detached, not particularly interested, not that Kurt has a real answer.

“I brought you something.” Kurt bounces slightly on the balls of his feet and grins at Blaine’s skeptically raised eyebrow. He moves his hand to his pocket, lifting up the daisy and holding it out towards Blaine.

Any ill feelings Blaine had moments before melt away as he takes the stem gently between his fingers, voicing a quiet and touched, “Kurt.” They share a smile and Blaine tucks the flower behind his ear with a flourish, immediately lightening the situation and making Kurt laugh. “Sit with me?” He asks hopefully, and Kurt nods again, letting Blaine guide him to the edge of the rock and then squawking indignantly as Blaine pulls him down, too hard and too fast, so that Kurt’s boots are scrambling against the steep cliffside.

“Blaine!” He admonishes, gripping at Blaine’s arm, and he laughs.

“Ninety-eight years and I finally got you back for that.”

Kurt can’t help himself; he laughs, elbowing at Blaine’s side and pressing his face into Blaine’s shoulder.

“You are absolutely ridiculous.”

Blaine hums in agreement and Kurt’s smile widens. He turns his head until he can look out, his and Blaine’s hands finding each other and locking together in the same instant that Blaine’s head falls to rest against Kurt’s. It’s habitual now, after all this time. They orbit one another, attuned to every nuance of movement, locked forever in the dance that is Kurt-and-Blaine.

The view has changed. Where before there was an endless ocean of trees, now they can see buildings and suburbs and the glint of the sun off of car windshields. The world around them has changed and they’ve remained, being shaped with every passing decade, but with fingers linked the entire time.

“ _And if you have a minute why don’t we go_ ,” Blaine begins to sing quietly and Kurt can’t help the small, silent laugh that vibrates through him. “ _Talk about it somewhere only we know_.” Kurt squeezes Blaine’s hand and Blaine squeezes back. “ _This could be the end of everything..._ ”

“ _So why don’t we go, somewhere only we know_ ,” Kurt sings with him, smiling, and then shakes his head. “You have an obsession with that song and us.”

“It’s perfect, Kurt.”

Kurt hums, unconvinced. 

“I think Keane may be onto us.”

“ _Blaine_.”

“No, seriously, I think they know something.”

Kurt laughs, lifting his head as Blaine babbles on about conspiracy theories. He takes Blaine’s face in his hands—on one side, just his hand, and on the other, their fingers laced together—and kisses him.

“You are the biggest dork,” Kurt says with a chuckle. “And I love you.” Blaine’s eyes flood with warmth and he smiles, pressing their noses together and closing his eyes, but not saying anything in response. He doesn’t need to.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” Blaine whispers out of nowhere. Kurt closes his eyes and lets himself listen. He’s heard the story so many times. “And I didn’t understand what love was, or what love could be. I didn’t know how many different ways there were to love someone.” Kurt feels his throat thicken—it’s always the same story, but Blaine never tells it the same way.

“I didn’t know, looking at you, that you would teach me all those things.”

When Kurt opens his eyes, Blaine is looking at him again, eyes too bright with his own unshed tears. Kurt strokes his fingers along Blaine’s face, feeling the slightest hint of stubble, and smiles.

“You taught me... Everything,” Blaine breathes. “Taught me about love, and family, and acceptance. You taught me how to be who I am, to not be  _afraid_  of who I am, and to hold onto that when the rest of the world tries to make me forget.” His grin turns silly. “You taught me how to thread a needle and lattice a pie crust. How to drive a car and how to fix one. And even if you like to pretend it never happened, you taught me how to tie-dye a t-shirt.” Blaine’s laughing and Kurt can’t help but laugh too, even at the horrible memories (fashion wise, especially) that the sixties dredge up.

But Blaine’s face turns serious again and Kurt still says nothing, waiting for whatever ending Blaine will come to this time.

“It’s been ninety-eight years since we met, and in those ninety eight years, you have taught me everything I could ever want to learn in life. It’s true now, and it will be true in another ninety-eight years, and another ninety-eight after that.” Blaine turns his head and kisses the heel of Kurt’s hand. “Ninety-eight years, and you’ve held my hand as the world changed, continues to change, but we... We’re everlasting, Kurt.”

Kurt feels emotion choke up his throat, so he just nods, feeling his heart beat wildly in his chest. This story feels different than all the others. Kurt isn’t sure if it’s the place, or the words, or the way Blaine is looking at him, but he knows that there is something different, something important, about the story this time.

“We’ve seen all the changes, and we’ll continue to see them. Together. We’ve seen the world change its mind, again and again. We’ve seen wars fought and people fighting for freedom, and so much acceptance, Kurt.” Blaine grabs tightly at Kurt’s hand where it’s still pressed against his own cheek. “We’ve spent so long looking for it, and it’s not perfect, but we’re... We’re almost there.”

A small noise escapes Kurt, giving away what exactly Blaine’s speech is doing to him, as he blinks at the pressure building behind his eyes.

“I can marry you, Kurt.” Blaine whispers fervently, and Kurt’s breath catches in his throat. “If I wanted to marry you, I could.”

Kurt stares at him, mouth parted but unable to form the question, and he swallows down the block in his throat.

“Do you want to?” Kurt's voice is quiet and slightly strangled, but he doesn’t feel scared. Blaine has loved him and will love him until the end of the world, looking at Kurt with those same eyes and that same smile and closing Kurt’s hands tightly around Blaine’s heart.

Blaine leans in and kisses him, gently, slowly, just barely pulling back enough so that, when he speaks, the words are a breath pressed between their lips.

“I’ve wanted to marry you for ninety-eight years.”


End file.
